Wanted: Storyteller

 

The room was entirely white.

He looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. All white. In fact, the only thing that wasn't white was himself. That, and the chair he was sitting on. He got up, turned around, and backed up a bit to study the chair.

It was a wooden chair, and not a particularly interesting one as wooden chairs go. After gazing at it for a few seconds, his mind began to drift. Fuzzily, he tried to think of where he was, tried to recall where he had been before being here. He had absolutely no idea.

And something else was nagging him. He had this overwhelming sense of certainty, mixed with a dash of dread, that not knowing where he was should be the least of his problems. Something more primordial should be bothering him. He thought harder, then realized what it was.

He didn't know who the hell he was.

A door suddenly materialized. It opened and out came a rotund man clad in surprisingly Hawaiian shirt and shorts. He came forward and offered his hand, saying, “Hello, Andrew. I'm Nate.”

“Andrew?” he asked, still ridiculously transfixed at the man's shirt. It was just so yellow. “Is that my name?”

“Well, no, but calling you Adam would have been too cliche.” Nate answered with a smile. “You like the shirt?”

“It's uhmmm... yellow,” Andrew managed to say.

“Ha-ha, good answer,” Nate commented, still with that easy smile. ”Anyway, we should probably begin the orientation. Walk with me, Andrew.”

It was all white again, only now the whiteness was vast and seemed infinite. Still, it was a comfortable white. Soothing and peaceful. Nate began to speak.

“What you need to know, Andrew, is that you've been recruited,” Nate said, “to tell stories.”

"Excuse me?" Andrew asked.

"We want you to make up stories, Andrew," Nate said.

Andrew fell silent, as he absorbed the statement. It felt right somehow.

Then his eyebrows furrowed. He still had no idea who he was.

As if reading his thoughts, Nate said, "You can't remember who you are because we made you forget. It was with your consent, mind you. Memories are irrelevant to the work you're going to be doing, you see. They're just so much baggage," he concluded, nodding.

"What precisely am I supposed to do, Nate?"  Andrew asked. "This work, you said that I'm supposed write stories? What kind of stories?"

"Whatever kind you like, Andrew,"  Nate answered, adding, "It's really entirely up to you. And you don't write them, like on paper or type them on a computer or typewriter. You tell them. With your mind. Let me explain some more."

The vast whiteness was suddenly filled with people. It was chaotic, but it was an orderly sort of chaos. There were people all around Andrew. And above him and below. There were shouts, cries, laughter and an occasional scream of pure delight. There was a pretty Eurasian-looking girl with colorfully dyed hair wearing skimpy shorts, blowing a bubblegum.  There was a guy dressed in a Santa Claus suit lively cursing in French. And not just people. There was an alligator standing upright, holding a toy gun with one hand and a slurpee with the other. It was all too weird, Andrew thought.

"These are storytellers, Andrew. I'm of them, by the way. And soon, you too. But we're not storytellers in the conventional sense. We're the world's storytellers. We tell the world's stories."

Andrew frowned, not comprehending. "I don't understand," he said.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'm not explaining it right," Nate admitted, twisting his mouth and scratching his nose. "We're not people, Andrew. We're more like celestial beings or cosmic entities. And we live beyond the fabric of reality, outside the realm of time and space."

"Ummm, okay…" Andrew muttered, still unsure.

"Yup. Think of your old world as a blank page, Andrew. As a writer, what do you do with a blank page? You fill it up with words that tell a story. The world is like this really really large notebook. Some pages have already been filled, most are still blank, and its up to us to continue filling the blank ones up."

"I'm dead, right?" Andrew suddenly said, a look of despair crossing his face. Then it brightened a bit. "I'm dead and you're an angel and you're here to take me to heaven, and offer me a job…?" he said as his voice trailed off, skeptical of his own train of thought.

Nate sighed wearily, his face suddenly old and full of wrinkles. Was he wrong in thinking that Andrew could be up for the job? But what else could he do? There was certainly no turning back now. The die was cast and all he could do was hope that Andrew's creative mind could make that imaginative leap. He pressed on.

"Heaven and hell, angels and demons, they're just stories, Andrew. Very beautiful and effective stories, I admit, at least for a time, but they're basically just stories. Everything you know, I mean, everything you used to know, they were all just stories we made up here. I can even introduce you to the groups who came up with Christianity, automobiles, dinosaurs,  and 9-11, but that's for another day. First thing though, you've got to grasp the concept of what we do.

"You see, Andrew, the world was created, then it was left to us to tell its stories. You ever heard the expression 'God is in the details'? Well, God isn't, not in a hands-on sense. It's us, Andrew. We're in the details. Or more accurately, we are in charge of the details. Of course what we do has to conform to his grand plan, but it's a very broad plan, and there's a lot of elbow room for us to get creative.

"God delegated the task of telling stories to our kind. The beings you saw earlier, that alligator and chick with the colored hair, and did you notice the armadillo with the blue-tooth earpiece? No? Anyway, that's us Andrew. Storytellers. And our task is to tell the greatest, most beautiful, most wonderful stories we can imagine for this world. We started telling stories the moment life began.

"Basically, you're given a folder with a person's name written on it. That person whose name is written in the folder is your charge. The folder will also contain some information about him. More importantly, it would have two dates. His date of birth, and the date of his death. What happens in-between, well, that's entirely up to the storyteller.

"Is she going to be a warrior, a criminal, a rockstar, or a one-eyed monkey in the middle of the African jungles? Will he be the next Hitler or Einstein or Messiah, or will he live most of his life in a secluded forest talking to squirrels and raping sheep?How many children will she bear? Grandchildren? How many lovers, friends? Will she make a mean baked macaroni that's the envy of her entire neighborhood? The story of his or her life will be entirely your responsibility. It's hard and challenging work, Andrew, but if you're truly a storyteller at core, its going to be the ultimate high.

"And you have to coordinate your plans with other storytellers. For instance, if your story involves a bombing or plane crash, with a lot of people dying at the same time, you have talk with other storytellers and collaborate with them. It's all connected and it can be very frustrating, and fun and crazy at times. But in the end, when you do good work, I guarantee that you'll feel a great rush of satisfaction that's just indescribable. Imagine the feeling of having finished writing a novel or short story that you think rocks, and everyone agreeing with you. Then imagine that hitting the bestseller list for, say, sixty weeks. Now, imagine that feeling multiplied a hundred-fold. That would only be an inkling of the feeling I'm talking about. In any case, you'll soon get the chance to feel it.

"We're bound by certain rules, of course. Some rules change, but the basic ones, the important ones, they stay the same. You'll learn about them as you go along. Just remember, like any story worth its salt, it has to make sense."

Andrew nodded. He was having a hard time absorbing everything, but somehow, he thought he understood the gist of what Nate was saying. He looked around and noticed that the vast whiteness was gone. They were standing at the very edge of time and space. He had no idea how he knew this, but he knew it was true, just as he knew that the bright blue planet in front of him was Earth. It was Earth at the beginning of time, so fresh, angry, full of possibilities and about to burst.

"Before you start telling new stories, you need to know all the stories we've told so far since life began. Continuity's one of those basic rules I mentioned, Andrew," Nate explained. The room began to swirl and the universe opened up all its secrets. Andrew took Nate's offered hand, and together they walked through all of time and space since creation.

After an eternity, they finished and came back.

"Wow," Andrew commented, the awe clearly obvious in his voice. He had just witnessed 'everything'.

"Yeah, it's quite something, isn't it?" Nate said.

Andrew looked around, then asked, "Where are we, Nate?"

Nate didn't answer. He didn't have to. They were in what was obviously a delivery room. Instead, he said, "Come. I have one last thing to show you."

A mother was in labor. The doctors were telling her to push. The baby was coming.

"Take this," Nate gave Andrew a green capsule. Andrew took it, then swallowed.

"Now tell your story, Andrew," Nate said.

Andrew felt his mind and world expand. This is it, Andrew thought. He took one deep breath. He was nervous and excited. He knew that this was his destiny, to tell stories. He couldn't remember who he was or what he did before all this, but he was sure it had something to do with telling stories. A novelist maybe. A screenwriter? Poet? Hack? At the very soul of his being, he knew he was a storyteller. After all, why else would he have been recruited to do this kind of work?

He brushed aside all these thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. He was going to tell the baby's story. Instantly, the world became his very own playground, and he entered the baby's mind, becoming one with his charge. He/She spoke:

"My parents named me Christmas. Surname, Winters. Yes, that would make me Christmas Winters. I know. It think it's a pretty damn cool name too."

As Andrew began unraveling Christmas' story, images swirled in his mind. No, not just images. Also sound, smell, taste, texture, thought. And everything else in-between. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever experienced. At first, he thought that it would simply be like writing a story, where he tried his best to get into his characters' minds. There was always that sense of disassociation, try as he might to connect with them.This was entirely different though. It was a seamless integration, a perfect fusion of creator and created. Christ, it was the ultimate writing experience. He went back to work.

"We were quite poor, although I never really felt it when I was young. Both my parents worked real hard, and there came a time when things started to look up a bit. I think I was around twelve at the time. I remember praying for my parents to become real rich because they deserved to be happy, the way they struggled so hard for us. I had a younger brother named Jeremy, by the way. We began getting bigger and more expensive presents, and started to go to movies more often. I remember one time when mom and dad took us to watch this play. The tickets cost a lot, but dad insisted. Jeremy didn't enjoy it, and I think dad only wanted us to go because he knew mom would love it. Me? I was spellbound. Immediately after watching the play, I went all over our house, trying on every shirt, dress, curtain, pillow case. Anything that could be used as a costume. I talked in weird accents that were supposed to be French, Chinese, Hebrew, Aramaic, and one particular alien tongue I called Daikatoranian. It was such a perfect time, probably the last time we were all so happy. My mom was diagnosed with cancer shortly after that, and died the next year."

Tears flowed from Andrew's eyes. He was intimately connected with Christmas, knew everything about her. Even those she didn't know herself. He was her mother, father, neighbor, dog, lover. He was her creator in every sense that mattered, and he loved every little thing about her. Each idea. Each gesture. Every dream and failure, quirk and pet peeve. He was pleased with her imperfections and inconsistencies. And mostly, her good heart.  He felt her immense sorrow at the tragic loss of her mother. He continued on.

"Dad had suffered so much when we lost mom. He didn't become an alcoholic or anything like that. There was one time though, when I came home from school late because we had choir practice and found him sitting on the couch, alone in the dark. My mom had already been dead for about four years. He'd apparently drank a few beers, and not being used to it, he got drunk easily. I asked him if he was okay, and he said no. Then he cried, and said that he'll never be okay again because mom was dead. Mom had been his north star and she was dead and he was lost and it was all so hard and he was so very sorry he couldn't be a good father to us anymore. I went to my dad and hugged him real tight. I told him I missed mom too, so very much, and he was still a good father to us. I assured him that he had absolutely nothing to be sorry about. Then Jeremy entered the room, still sleepy-eyed. He saw us hugging and said that he wanted a hug too. We all laughed and cried, and it was such a Kodak moment. I'll cherish it for as long as I live.

"I went to college on a scholarship, then took up medicine. I graduated at the top of my class. On graduation day, my dad told me that if mom was still alive, she'd probably be so proud she'd weep so loud and embarrass us all. That made me cry because I knew it was true.

"I met Stewart at the public library. I was treating this nine-year old kid with what seemed to be a rare disease and was reading up on the matter. Nine years old! I wondered if this world of ours will ever make sense, and if God actually existed. Probably not, I bitterly concluded. If He did, He certainly wouldn't allow a little boy to have some incurable disease and die, right? What would be the point? My mind was so distracted with these questions that I didn't notice this guy coming up to me until he spoke, asking me if I was okay. I answered that I was fine, a little annoyed. Then he said that if I was fine, maybe I should flip over the book I was reading, so he could read its cover title. Apparently, I'd been holding it upside-down."

Andrew smiled, pleased with how his/her story was progressing. It's the details that count, right? And this was only the beginning. His Christmas still had so much to do, so many lives to touch. She was an angel with the purest of heart, and Andrew loved her immensely. He began forming his thoughts. There was the accidental kiss at her cousin Shawn's birthday party, Stewart's sudden proposal, at a comic convention, of all places. Then the garden wedding. Her first child, her promotion as chief of -

"Andrew," Nate whispered. The whisper fell on deaf ears. Andrew was still caught up in his storytelling. Nate reached for his shoulder and gave Andrew a slight shake.

"What?" Andrew asked, annoyed by the interruption.

He was back at the hospital. He saw the doctors shaking their heads. Their posture was that of failure. Instead of a baby's wail, there was only a deafening silence, until Andrew heard the most heart-breaking sound of all.

A mother's cry.

Andrew's entire being filled with shock and grief. The feeling of loss was so intense, he seemed to be suffocating, drowning in despair and hopelessness. He felt so desperately confused. And decidedly angry. He had been played for a fool, he thought.

Andrew grabbed Nate by the neck and pushed him against the hospital wall. "She can't be dead! There's still so much to tell! Bring her back!" he demanded, his eyes menacing.

"Calm down, Andrew," Nate advised, trying to pry away Andrew's fingers from his neck. "You're ruining my shirt."

Andrew released his grip and looked at Nate with pleading eyes. A wooden chair materialized near Nate and he took it to Andrew. "Sit down, Andrew," he said softly. Andrew sat and pleaded hopefully, "I still have so much to tell."

"I know, but this was just a test. The green capsule was sort of a trial version of what would actually happen once you become part of us. We couldn't very well hand you an assignment without a test run, could we? We had to see if you grasp the idea of our work, and clearly you do. You're a natural, Andrew."

"What about Christmas?" Andrew asked, ignoring Nate's praise.

Nate sighed, then spoke, "The child you named Christmas was a charge of mine. This is her file," Nate said, showing Andrew the contents of a folder. "She lived for about twenty seconds. But within those twenty seconds, I told her story. Of her seeing a glimpse of her loving mother, and hearing the tender voices of her doctors. She felt the love and concern around her, and with the amount of time she had been given, that was the best she or anyone else could have hoped for. She died very very young, but she died having known and felt love.

"Sometimes, we get assignments like this, Andrew. Where you will have only hours to tell your charge's story, even minutes. It shouldn't make a difference though. The length of time your charge is alive isn't what matters. What matters is how the life is lived, and that depends entirely on you, and how you tell his or her story."

Nate held a red capsule and offered it to Andrew. "This is the real deal, Andrew," Nate said.

Andrew took it.

"When you feel you're ready to begin work, swallow the capsule. Once you do that, you will become one with us. Initially, you'll get one folder. One charge to handle, one life to live, one story to tell. Once you get used to the work, you'll get more and more folders, and you'll tell multiple stories simultaneously. I'm confident you're up to the job. Just be as creative as you can and let your imagination run wild. And don't hold back. 

A piece of advise I can give, one that I've learned through experience, is that the best stories are the ones that move the heart."

Then Nate disappeared. Andrew opened his palm face up, and looked contemplatively at the small red capsule.

---------

"Christ, I'm glad I'm not in that white room anymore. I swear, all that infinite brightness was killing me," Nate complained to a bearded old man. They were in a black room, completely enveloped in darkness, except for the glittering red ash at the tip of the cigar the old bearded man was smoking.

"Do you think he's ready for this?" the old bearded man asked, concern in his voice.

"Yeah, he's ready. He's a natural at this. Even I wasn't this good on my trial run. And you weren't so hot yourself," Nate said spitefully.

"Fuck. They installed a completely new system that time. We had to learn the language entirely from scratch," the old bearded man argued and spat contemptuously. "What does it matter anyway? The die is cast, and there's no turning back now, is there?"

"No," Nate agreed matter-of-factly.

"So the puppet is made to think he's a puppet master. And the puppet's real master? Is he still the one pulling the strings?" the old bearded man brooded, not really expecting an answer. He added, "You think all this is going to help us in the end?"

"It's all risky, but I think it'll pay off. It's certainly going to shake things up a bit, make for a more interesting story. Ultimately, isn't that what we're all after?" he reasoned out. "Anyway, we sure as hell weren't going places with your ideas," Nate added.

"True," the old man conceded. "You think anyone noticed the change? With the rules, I mean. I thought that couldn't happen anymore, considering the last time," the old man said in a whisper as he took another puff.

"Nah, I don't think anyone's noticed. After all, everyone's comfortable in their own niches. I'm pretty sure we're the only ones to find out. At least for now."

"And when they do finally notice, we'll be far ahead of the game it won't even matter."

With a contemplative face, the old bearded man puffed his cigar one last time, then stubbed it out. They sat silently in complete and utter blackness. There was really nothing else to say, so neither spoke another word.

----------

Andrew stared at the red capsule. He placed it close to his left eye, and looked at it intently. There were lights flashing inside, an infinite circuitry of blinks and cursors. He imagined how it would feel to become one with the world, to begin telling its/his stories. If he could feel so good with a test, how much better was he going to feel hooked up with the actual deal? There was really nothing to consider.

He placed the capsule on top of his thumbnail and flicked it upwards. He caught the capsule with his mouth and swallowed it.

He found himself sitting at a desk. His desk, he instinctively knew. There was one single blue folder on top of it. He eagerly picked it up, flipped it open, and browsed through its sparse data.

Yao Chen Ma. Born on October 31, 1970, at precisely 2:47 AM. Date of death: January 4, 2032, time at 6:23 AM.

Andrew did the math. His charge would live for sixty-two years. Was that time enough to tell a particularly good story?

He was going to make sure it was.