You Da Man

WHO DA MAN?

       As a trial lawyer, albeit now retired, Dave was accustomed to talking - a lot. He would talk to clients, court personnel, partners in his firm, and others who were involved in the judicial system. He would talk on the phone and talk in court when attending hearings or trials. He even signed up to give continuing legal education talks to other lawyers. So, it came as no surprise to him that, after retiring and moving to a small farm some twenty miles outside of town where he lived alone, more and more, he found himself talking to himself.         

 A talker by nature, he missed talking like he had before. But for a couple of nightly calls to or from his sisters, he had no one but himself to talk to, most of the time.

Night One

      One night while watching TV, nature called and he went to the bathroom. As he walked past the ten-foot wide mirror over the counter and sink, he glanced over at himself. For some reason, his funny bone was awakened and, as he stared hard at his reflection, he asked himself, "Who are you looking at?" Then he followed that with a response from a different Dave, the one in the mirror: "I'm looking at you."

      "Why are you looking at me first Dave said to the other. Dave"

      "Because you be da man, man."

      "What da you mean, I be da man, man?"

      "You be da man because you be da man!"

      "How did I become da man?"

      "You have been da man all along, man."

      "What am I supposed to do being da man?"

      "Man, you da man, you do whatever you want to do."

      "Suppose I don't want to be da man?"

      "You got no choice. Once you be da man, you da man until another man becomes da man."

      "So, I can just relinquish my status as da man and someone else will become da man in my place, right?"

      "Well, ordinarily that would be the case but, since you live here alone, there is no one else to take your place as da man. So until another man moves in with you, you gotta be da man. That's just how it works."

      "Let me get this straight. I am da man until the day I die if I continue to live alone. Is that right?"

      "Right as rain man, until someone takes your place, you da man."

      Finishing up his business in the bathroom, he walked out, flipping the light switch off and not looking at the mirror.

Night Two

      The next night, he worked on his computer in the TV room. Again, he found the need to visit the head. When he stepped into the bathroom, he was careful not to look at himself in the mirror. Nor did he look at it when leaving.

      All day, he had questioned whether he was, perhaps, going crazy after all. Talking to himself in the mirror the night before had been disturbing and he did not want to give himself even the slightest opportunity to enter into a conversation with himself, or someone appearing to be him - about 'being da man'.

Night Three

      His day had been a good one. For most of the it, he had been out in, what he called, The Hemmingway House. Ernest Hemmingway was his favorite author, hence the moniker he gave his writing shed. It was a nifty little writing man cave, complete with a window air conditioner for hot days, an electric space heater for cold days, a small refrigerator, coffee maker, along with a computer and printer on a card table. When out in the Hemingway House, with country music playing lightly in the background, he could easily get in the writing zone.

       Everyone has their favorites in life and his were writing, fly fishing, and cooking, in that order.

       He considered himself lucky to be where he was at this stage in his life of sixty plus years. He make a point of thanking the good Lord above often for where he found himself at this point in life.

      At the end of the day, he followed his usual unwinding routine of doing some stretches, using counter tops in the kitchen to hold to when doing his short workout. This was followed by a few minutes in front of the television checking the news on several channels to get the full story.

      Then he would settle down in front of his inside desktop computer and check his Facebook page and do whatever else he wanted to do one the computer. After that, he would move over to his Lazyboy recliner in front of the television and watch movies and shows he liked.

      Because he suffered from a nerve condition in his feet, called peripheral neuropathy, he took a diuretic several time a day which meant he went to the bathroom frequently to pee.

      That night, the first time he went to the bathroom, he glanced at the mirror and, sure enough, his alter ego was there smiling and saying "you da man!", to which he quickly replied, "Don't get started with me about that you da man crap tonight. I'm not in the mood."

      "To late ,"the image of himself said haughtily. "You da man whether you want to be da man or not. So there."

      "Man, I already told you I don't want to be da man. So, I suggest you just go on and find somebody else to haunt somewhere else. Try to city. There are millions of men there who I am sure would just love being da man."

      "In your dreams man. I already told you that you da man until someone else there in your house becomes da man. You can't just export to the city your "You da man-ness", man. Whatcha thinking man. You da man.'

      Electing not to engage in further foolish debate with himself about being da man, he left the bathroom, cutting out the light and leaving whoever the hell he had been talking to in the dark. "Take that you freak," he said with a cackle as he flipped the light switch.

Day Four

      On the fourth day, the skies were gray and the day overcast, putting him in a sour mood when he first stepped out onto the back porch, going to the Hemingway House to begin his writing for the day. By nature, he did not like days like this. He was more of a sunshine kind of guy.

      Once closeted inside his writing shed, he forgot about the less than favorable weather outside and got down to business banging out sentences, paragraphs, pages, and chapters to Road Kill, the novel he had been working on since 1989, some twenty-plus years.

      Though he had reached "The End" a couple of years earlier, he continued to tweak the story, thinking at times that he did not really want to finish. His hidden fear, he surmised was that once he was totally finished writing the book, the only thing left to do was submit it to publishers, with hopes of one agreeing to publish his first book. His second hidden fear was that all the editors he submitted his manuscript to would reject it. This was a project of more than thirty years, and the thought of rejection was almost unbearable. He even cursed himself for starting the book oh so many years ago. What was he thinking?

      He even named his imaginary fear of being rejected: Fear Of Being Rejected Phobia. (hereinafter, FOBRP) For a serious writer, such as him, FOBRP could be a debilitating disease, resulting in completely new beginnings, mid-parts or endings to the narrative. He was pretty sure that the never ending self-editing he seemed to be stuck in was a direct result of FOBRP. Try as he did, he could find no cure for it.

       Day four ended with him almost swearing of the book. Why should he torture himself day after, week after week and month after month trying to finish to writing project he clearly was never meant to finish. Needless to say his head down walk from the Hemmingway House to his house was a pitiful sight, had there been anyone there to witness it.

      There had been many days over the years where he would find himself discouraged over his progress with Road Kill, but usually, he could talk himself out of whatever funk he was in and soldier on. But this day was different. His doubts over his ability to finish his book were more acute than ever before.

       Once inside, he made a sandwich, grabbed a bottle of water from the frig, and settled down in front of the television. His thinking was that if he could get interested in something that was being aired on TV, maybe he could get his mind off the darn book.

       He found a talk show about fly fishing that interested him. As he watched two men talking about the fine art of fly fishing for trout in Montana and how well the two complemented each other in their discussion, it occurred to him that he would do we to have somebody sitting next to him, there in his television room, that he could talk to about his dilemma regarding giving up, or not giving up, on his novel.

       Then he had an epiphany. He did have someone to talk to and he was right there just across the hall in his bathroom, no more than fifteen feet away. Hoping up from his chair, he walked quickly to the bathroom and stood directly in front of the mirror. As he stared at his own image, something magical happened. For the first time, he bought into the whole "You da man" thing and began talking to the person reflected in the mirror.

       "Hey, man. I'm ready to be da man if you will agree to hang around for a few more nights and talk to me about Road Kill, the novel I'm trying to write. What do you say?"

       "Magic to my ears man. I have been waiting for you to come alive man and be the man. What do you want to talk about with regard to your book?"

      "Well, I have hit a wall. I think the book is finished, but for months now I have been editing and editing until I feel like I have edited it to death, but still don't think it is ready to be submitted to a publisher."

      "I hear you, man. But the answer to your dilemma is right here in front of you. Let's talk about why you are hesitant to submit."

      "Well, we can talk about it, but I honestly don't know why I can't get to the point of feeling comfortable submitting my manuscript to an editor for consideration. It's like I have this illness, a phobia about not being published. A couple of years ago, I even gave my illness a name: Fear Of Being Rejected Phobia.

      "What confuses me and what I cannot get my head around is that for the most part, I have been brave, even a risk-taker at times in my life. I have been scuba diving in the Atlantic Ocean to depths of seventy-plus feet. I have gone skydiving, jumping from a plane a mile above the earth. I have cooked veal scaloppini for the Premier of South Korea at his state house set on a small mountain overlooking Seoul."

      "I realize that there is nothing extraordinary about any of these but they do reflect a willingness to venture into the unknown a bit. They took a small measure of bravery as far as I am concerned. But when it comes to submitting my novel to publishers I feel like a coward. Why would a confirmed risk taker like me fear rejection."

      "Well, it seems to me that you have answered your own question. When you jumped out of that plan high above the earth, you were aware of the risk of your parachute not opening - right? No doubt, you signed a waiver of liability holding the skydiving outfit harmless if anything should go wrong. "

       "And, when you dove to the bottom of the ocean with an oxygen tank of your back feeding air into your breathing mask, you probably signed a waiver of liability in the dive shop before ever getting on the dive boat, same as with the sky diving outfit, yet you still went."

      "I suspect in both instances, scuba diving and skydiving, you overcame your fears by weighing the risk of something going wrong against the pure joy of jumping out of an air plane a mile above the earth or scuba diving to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean."

      "Man, when I hear you talk about the things you have done, it is clear to me why You Da Man. So just be da man and send that damn manuscript off to publishers. Take the risk of running out of air or your chute not opening. I can tell you right now, the pain of rejection will be far less harmful than if some of the other risks you have taken had not panned out. So, be da man and send that baby off."

      "Man, that's what I'm going to do. I cannot thank you enough for your encouragement and advice."

      "Don't mention it, man. After all, we are in this thing together, right?"

The End