Missed Connection: NYC Ferry, Astoria Route

I was the guy on the upper deck with the charcuterie board. You were the woman who slid over and asked why I brought so much meat and cheese on the ferry. I said, “I have a big meeting later, but my interns are sick, so I picked up the appetizers.” You said I was full of it. Then I said, “Try this prosciutto with gouda and grapes, and tell me I’m full of it.” You leaned in, and stopped, and asked if you would get me in trouble, to which I replied, “I live for trouble.” Then you laughed. You took a bite. You made a face like you had an orgasm. Then you said your name was Isabelle, and I said I was Felix. You asked how I knew you had a weakness for charcuterie, and I said, “Who doesn’t? It’s a world of possibilities on a single plate.” You said you never thought of it like that. Then you called me a nerd. We laughed, and I asked you to go on a date with me on dry land. You were about to say “Yes!” but then you got distracted by a tan line shaped like a ring wrapped around your finger. You said you were busy, but if I ever found myself on the ferry with another charcuterie board, you’d be happy to help me eat it.

Then you left.

The next day, I got on the upper deck with a new plate of meat and cheese. You were sitting in the same seat, looking at me with your hand covering your mouth like you couldn’t believe I actually did it. The two of us ate like royalty, gave ridiculous backstories to every passenger, and got so into it that we missed our stops. The moment you noticed, you shrugged and smirked, and whispered “Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes,” into my ear. That was the first time I saw you. Like, really saw you. I saw the bruises on your collarbone, the peach-colored foundation covering them up. My heart started pounding. I said, “Who did this to my Isabelle?” But you lied to me. You covered my mouth and stumbled through some story about being on the treadmill and your shoelaces came untied and you tripped. And before I could call you a liar, you changed the subject. You said you wanted to keep seeing me, but only on the condition that we never reveal our last names, jobs, phone numbers, addresses, or any personal information. Most importantly, the ferry was the only place we were allowed to meet.

It destroyed me.

I thought this thing we had going on was incredible. But I thought it was just the beginning of something real. I didn’t want to lose you, though, so I just smiled and nodded. I should have told you the truth. I should have told you the first time I noticed you was over a year ago.

You were sitting in the rain, cross-legged on the upper deck. Your hair was wet. Your dress had white flowers on it. Your eyes wrinkled with your smile. I wanted to talk to you but didn’t know what to say, so I kept my distance. After that, I spent every commute imagining the places you and I would go, the food we’d cook each other for dinner, the stupid things we’d fight about, and the sex we’d have to make up for it. Then, one day, I decided to stand up. I walked toward you. I was about to tell you my name when somebody called your phone. I sat down and overheard that you were late for a dance recital, that Saturday was best for pickleball, and that the eggplant parmesan could be reheated at four hundred degrees. You were married. I had to accept that. But then something changed in your voice. You got quiet for a long time. You started flinching and stuttering. It was like the person on the other line was yelling at you. Then you hung up. Your bottom lip was shaking. Your eyes were wet. You looked completely numb, defeated. I wanted to help you but didn’t know how. Then I saw you reach into your purse. You pulled out a travel magazine, The Western Europe Edition. Your smile grew each time you turned the page. It gave me an idea.

Charcuterie board.

German meats. Italian cheeses. French breads. I could bring Western Europe to you through food. All I had to do was go shopping and make up a little story. You were right, by the way; I was “full of it.” There was no big meeting. No sick interns. I was just a guy on your ferry who wanted to make your day. And now every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 5:46pm to 6:22pm, you and I could enjoy fresh charcuterie on the upper deck of the NYC Ferry, pretending to live the life I had been imagining for God knows how long. Then we’d pass your stop. And I would have to watch you leave the boat, remembering this life was only temporary. I thought about that a lot. Eventually, I realized our little secret wasn’t enough.

I found you on Google.

It took ten minutes. I found your full name, home address, and everything else you never wanted to tell me. I went to your apartment to tell your son-of-a-bitch husband that you didn’t belong to him — you belonged to me. He didn’t answer the door, though. Nobody did, no matter how hard I pounded, or how loud I screamed, “Isabelle!” over and over. I was getting ready to throw a flower pot through the window when your neighbor came out. She asked what I was doing. I said I was looking for you. She said you weren’t home. Your husband wasn’t either. Apparently, the two of you fought last night and he chased you out the door. You got in the car and drove off. Your neighbor said he shouted “horrible things” at you as you broke away from him. That was all she knew. I was so relieved; so proud of you, Isabelle. I wanted to celebrate with fresh Spanish chorizo and a French baguette. I couldn’t wait to find you waiting for me, sitting cross-legged on the upper deck in that flowery dress I loved so much.

But you weren’t there.

Instead, sitting in your seat was a saran-wrapped charcuterie board with a note taped to it:

Exploring a world of possibilities.

Thanks for the nudge,

Isabelle.

I still can’t believe it. Seriously, Isabelle? That’s all I get? After everything I did for you? You left New York without me, without even telling me where you were going? How the hell am I going to protect you if I don’t know where you are? Can’t you see I’m trying to save you? Why won’t you let me? You deleted Instagram. You changed your number. I’m running out of options here. Posting this Craigslist ad was the only other thing I could think of. When you see it, message me here.

I promise I won’t be mad. I just want to talk.

You’re my world of possibility, baby.

<3 Felix

The Sound of Their Voice

Maria was making her famous meatballs when her landline started ringing. It was her daughter, Hope. “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Hope said, “but I was in a car accident. I only had two drinks, I swear, but I hit someone, and they might be dead. The police said I needed $25,000 to make bail. Please, Mom, help me.”

Maria dropped a raw meatball on the floor.

“Are you there?” Hope said. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m here,” Maria said. She dried her eyes with the bottom of her apron. “Sorry…I just never expected this. It’s uncanny, really. You sound just like Hope.”

“What?” Hope said. “Mom, it is me! I am Hope. Please, I need you to send me the money. I can’t go to jail!”

Maria closed her eyes. She pictured her sixteen-year-old’s dark brown hair. Her pale blue eyes. The slight lisp she found embarrassing, but nobody noticed. Maria put down the phone. She took a breath and picked it back up. “You’re not my daughter,” she said calmly. “You are not my daughter.”

“Yes, I—"

“No, you’re not,” Maria said. “Because if you were my daughter, then I would have loved to get a call from you telling me you killed someone.”

Crackle, pop.

Maria twirled the cord around her finger and smiled a little by mistake. “It’s a much better call to get,” she said, “than the one I got two years ago. The police said Hope was killed by a real drunk driver.”

“Oh shit,” said a man’s voice. “I didn’t kn—”

“It’s fine,” Maria said, moving the phone to her shoulder. “But whoever you are, whatever terrible technology you’re using to scam me, I’d like to give you some advice if you don’t mind.”

She rolled her last meatball and stuck the tray in the oven.

The man didn’t make a sound.

“Hang up the phone,” she said, grabbing two porcelain plates and two sets of silverware. “Call someone you love. Tell them you love them. Tell them you will always love them. No matter what they’ve done wrong.” Maria went to the dining room. She placed a fork, knife, and plate on the table, in front of the seat where Hope used to sit. “Because one day your phone will ring,” Maria set a thirty-minute timer and took a seat, “And that’ll be the last time you hear the sound of their voice.”

A Really, Really Big Promise

The subway was really, really packed, but nobody wanted to sit with the sleepy man. He was alone in his seat, bent over so far that his long messy hair was hanging between his knees. His filthy fingers were curled over his toes. I didn’t want him to fall on accident, so I screamed wake up! But the sleepy man didn’t move or make a sound. He kind of smelled like garbage.

Mommy put her arm around me. She told me to use my inside voice, and the sleepy man had every right to sleep on the train because he was a grown-up, and grown-ups were allowed to sleep where they wanted. I asked Mommy why the sleepy man wanted to sleep on the train? Why not his bed at home? Where his Mommy could tuck him in and whisper “sweet dreams” before turning off the light?

Mommy patted my head. She smiled. She said things change when you grow up. Sometimes you have really bad days, and when you have a lot of them, you get really, really sleepy all the time. Sometimes, you get so sleepy that you can’t even make it to your bed before falling asleep. Mommy asked me if that reminded me of anyone. Then she started tickling me. I started laughing. And then I asked how come, when Daddy was asleep like the sleepy man, Mommy never let Daddy sleep? She always screamed at Daddy to wake up, like I screamed at the sleepy man.

Mommy stopped smiling.

She took a big breath. She told me she was really, really sorry. She thought I was too busy watching Peppa Pig on her iPad and eating ice cream before dinner to hear. I told her not to worry because I stayed brave, and I wanted to help the sleepy man wake up the same way she always wanted to help Daddy wake up. Then I stood up to help the sleepy man, but before I could help him, Mommy grabbed my arm and sat me back down.

She held my face with both hands. She said she wasn’t mad at me; she was proud of me. She said I had a really good heart, but life had a way of being tough for people with good hearts. She told me to promise to never stop trying to take care of people in need. But also, to never forget to take care of my own needs first; no matter how much help I really wanted to give to someone; no matter how much help they really, really needed to take from me.

I nodded.

Mommy squeezed my arm.

She told me to always remember that Daddy loved me more than life itself, and she really, really wished he could be here to tell me, like he was supposed to be.

Then she stopped.

Mommy looked at the sleepy man, then back at me.

Her eyes were wet and blue.

Going Away

Baba was putting a cake in the oven when I ran into his arms and cried all over his favorite sweater. He patted my back and said everything would be alright. He saw this coming, and he knew exactly how to make me feel better.

“Once upon a time,” Baba said, stroking my hair, “there was a princess named Zara who lived in a big, beautiful castle. She spent her time studying hard, eating lots of baklava, and most of all, flying her kite. She loved the feeling of the string unraveling as her prized possession ascended into the fluffy white clouds.”

I wiped my eyes with Baba’s apron and smiled a little.

“Then one day,” Baba said, “something magical happened. Zara’s kite came to life and started speaking to her. He said his name was Safar, and he asked Zara to fly him a little higher. Zara happily agreed, and released more and more string, until Safar was just a small, diamond-shaped dot in a big blue sky.

When Safar came down, he told Zara everything he saw, the mountains, oceans, forests, and villages. Together, Safar said, they could explore them all. Zara’s eyes lit up. Her mind raced with the endless ideas for adventures. But then she got distracted by the shadow of her big, beautiful castle, falling over the meadow. Zara felt butterflies in her stomach. She looked down at her feet, and told Safar she couldn’t go.”

“Did Safar get sad?” I asked.

“Safar was heartbroken,” Baba said, placing his hand over his chest. “He thought Zara was the brightest, prettiest, and kindest princess. He knew the world would welcome her with open arms, if only she would let it. So, the next day, Safar made a special request. He asked Zara to fly him even higher. And for the first time, Zara released all her string. Safar was flying above the clouds, and the two of them were having the time of their lives. But then, a powerful gust came, and the string was severed. Safar was swept up by the wind and carried into the horizon. Zara dropped the kite and sprinted through the forest, overcoming thorny branches, fallen trees, and unfriendly creatures to track down her best friend. But Safar was gone. Zara was caught between her castle and the rest of the world.”

“What did she do?”

Baba’s mustache smiled. “She thought about the future,” he said. “If she returned to the castle without Safar, she would spend the rest of her life wondering what happened to her best friend. On the other hand, she could—”

“She should look for him!”

“And that’s what she did!” Baba said, lifting me up and spinning me around. “Zara faced her fears. She searched the world for Safar, knowing she was brave enough to conquer any level of danger that came her way, as long as she was doing it for someone she loved.”

“So, did Zara ever find Safar?”

Before Baba could answer, the oven beeped.

He got up, took out the cake, and set it down in front of me. Then he smiled. His eyes were a little wet. He looked like he wanted to say something important, but couldn’t. Instead, he grabbed a tube of icing and squeezed out big pink letters: America awaits you, my princess. Make Baba proud!            

How Should Creatives Use ChatGPT?

ChatGPT is changing the game…

…especially in the creative industry. With its unparalleled ability to generate logical reasoning, objective information, and near-perfect output in just seconds, ChatGPT has already made a massive impact on the world. Still, ChatGPT could never replace human creativity, but instead, serves as a tool to amplify it. Just like the calculator, the personal computer, and even the search engine, the purpose of ChatGPT is to enhance the humans who use it.

The question is, how do we use it?

Creatives are trained to find a balance between art and science, input and output, vision and execution. But now that’s changing. Thanks to ChatGPT, creatives must now shift their approach to harness the virtually infinite capabilities of AI to meet their specific needs. This means we must tap into what makes us unique and use it in conjunction with ChatGPT. In other words, we must do what Chat GPT can’t — we must be human.

1. We must be childish

Children are just learning the ways of the world. This gives them an innate sense of wonder, curiosity, and playfulness that can lead to open-minded thinking and innovative ideas. ChatGPT, on the other hand, is bound by intelligently following the rules and directions set by 10% of the internet. It may be great at following rules and parameters, but that inherently limits the ideas that it can flesh out.

Example prompts:

• “If there’s such thing as a black hole, there must be a white hole in existence, too. Can you define it for me?”

• “Make up a story about a future where McDonald’s enters the fashion industry.”

• “Write a rough draft of a comedy script for a laundry detergent that cleans your mind of dirty thoughts.”

2. We must be irrational

Making irrational decisions is fundamental to human nature, allowing us to think beyond the boundaries of logic and reason. Irrationality gives rise to our emotions, desires, and passions, and allows us to create, imagine, and experience things that don’t necessarily have a rational explanation. It allows for serendipitous discoveries, and encourages individuals to take bigger risks, dismissing the head and following the heart, even when the outcome is uncertain. With ChatGPT, we can input our most irrational ideas and trust the AI to build on them by attempting to create a logical path to execution.

Example prompts:

• “What if our feet were our hands and our hands were our feet? How would the shoes and gloves industries be affected?”

• “Give me a concept writeup for an idea called: Uber Bathroom.”

• “What could happen if someone traveled back in time to warn themselves not to build a time machine?”

3. We must be imperfect

Perfect is the enemy of good. So, embrace clunky copy, half-baked ideas, and convoluted brain dumps as a source of inspiration for our ChatGPT inputs. They can be molded into refined expressions of us, generated into more original ideas, and fostered into a greater willingness to take risks and experiment.

We are constantly learning, growing, and changing. And by trusting ChatGPT with our imperfect ideas along the way, we can create better work and develop ourselves, faster.

Example prompts:

• “Can you make this copy flow better? [Attach your clunky copy]”

• “The concept below is half-baked, and I need you to simplify it. [Attach your convoluted concept]”

• “Can you refine this brain dump of random thoughts into a linear narrative? [Attach your brain dump]”

4. We must be subjective

Chat GPT is a wealth of objective and (usually) accurate information, but it lacks the personal touch people come to expect from their favorite human creators. This personal touch is a representation of our subjective take on our life experiences. So, when we use ChatGPT to cut our work time in half, we should use that time we saved to inject our own unique voice into the final product. By embracing subjectivity in creative work, we can tap into our own voice and deliver ideas that are personal, meaningful, and impactful. We should keep this in mind during the editing process, after we nail the prompt.

5. We must be slow

The idea generation stage should be fast to allow for free-flowing thoughts and quick sketches, while the refinement stage should be slow and more deliberate. After generating output with ChatGPT at rapid speeds, we should take more time to think deeply and reflect on the ideas, shaping them until they fit the context in which our audience will experience them. For instance, if we’re writing a song about summer. Before we finalize it, we should make sure to listen to it while cruising down the highway with friends, with the windows down, basking in the warm weather.

This may take extra time, but it will lead to more meaningful work. It will bring out empathy, intuition, and emotional depth that ChatGPT cannot create on its own, which is often what makes creative work stand out, resonate with others, and become timeless.

All in all, we must be human.

Chat GPT will always be better than humans at generating output. And the quality of that output will always depend on the quality of the input, which of course, is controlled by humans. That’s why, in order to stay relevant, creative people need to pivot.

Instead of spending countless hours on generating output, our time will be better spent exploring the world, collecting experiences, reflecting on them, and using them as reference points as inputs for ChatGPT. Then we should spend time sculpting its output until we believe it’s good enough for the audience.

This means we’re not merely creatives anymore, we’re much more. We are directors, who use our creative taste as our greatest superpower. And now, we all have the most productive junior writer, researcher, idea generator, and coder working beneath us. The question is, how will we direct them to realize our vision?

It all starts with embracing what makes us human.

I Stand Corrected

Hello again.

You don’t know me, but I’ve known you for a while. I was there when you told Mom you were eating Dad out for lunch. When you told your date you would cook them a sizzling hot plate of chicken vaginas. Even when you asked your boss for paid time off due to personal circumcisions. 

Still not sure who I am? Here’s a hint. I’m the guy who edits your texts without your permission. Creepy, I know. But in my defense, you enabled me. My name is Otto, although you probably know me as Autocorrect.

Yes, that Autocorrect.

Look, you don’t have to say it — I’ve already heard it a million times. You’re frustrated with me screwing up your text messages and leaving you to pick up all the pieces. It’s annoying and embarrassing, and if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you deserve to suffer because of my mistakes. At the very least, you deserve an explanation.

I’ll start from when I was human. 

Ever since I learned how to speak, I knew I was going to be a competitive speller. Technically, the first “word” I spoke was the spelling of a word. Dad left a note on the fridge for Mom to read when she got home from work. The second I noticed his egregious spelling error, I flung my mushed peas at him and corrected his spelling letter by letter:

W-E-D-N-E-S-D-A-Y. Wednesday.

When I got to kindergarten, I knew right away that I was different from the other kids. I didn’t want to play sports or make friends. The only friends I needed were Merriam and Webster. Even in kindergarten, I knew they were the only ones who could help me achieve my dream— to spell every word in the dictionary from memory, without making a single mistake.

By the time I started high school, I had already won a spelling bee in every state in America. I caught the attention of some pretty big names, or “capital letters,” as we say in the spelling community. You’ve probably heard of them before: Graham Atticus, Alita Verbose, and the infamous bad boy of spelling, Albert “Al” Phabet-Johnson. They pulled me aside right after I clinched my fiftieth victory. “You have potential, kid,” said Phabet-Johnson. “You could be the first competitive speller to win one hundred spelling bees in one hundred languages. This, of course, would make you the greatest competitive speller who ever lived.”

Throughout high school, spelling was all I thought about. For twenty-two hours a day. I studied one hundred dictionaries in one hundred languages. I barely slept. I hardly ate. And I rarely showered. My parents used to crack my bedroom door and say, “You look like you need a break, our little champion.”

“You don’t know what’s best for me!” I’d snap back. Hunched over the Turkish dictionary in three-day-old underwear like Gollum.

Okay, I hear you. This may sound like psychotic perfectionism. But it was exactly what I needed to do to succeed. Over the next four years, I won ninety-nine competitions in ninety-nine languages on six continents. I became the biggest “capital letter” in the world of competitive spelling, with die-hard fans everywhere I went. I met kings, queens, presidents, prime ministers, and even the Pope. He was so grateful to meet me. But I couldn’t care less, so I told him I didn’t believe in God.

I know. I hate me, too.

But before you crumple up this letter in disgust, try putting yourself in my shoes. How would you feel if you never made a spelling mistake in your life? Or if you were worshipped by spellers around the world? Would you believe in God? Then I realized, if God did exist, He would have to be me, Otto. That’s what the voices told me.

“Everyone makes mistakes...except you, Otto.”

“There is no word that can throw you, Otto.”

“You’re the almighty speller, Otto; the human manifestation of perfection.”

These voices were embedded in my skull. Devouring my mind like hungry termites. They had control over me — and it wasn’t long before they took over completely.

I was in Turkey, standing on stage in the middle of my one-hundredth spelling bee. I had to spell “Kusursuz” which was an easy one. But the voices were screaming so loud that, well, I screwed up. I was on my second-to-last letter when I said “I” instead of “U.” And just like that, the single-most egotistical letter in the alphabet flushed my entire life’s work down the drain. After that, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I stopped speaking with my parents. And I lost all my fans and followers. To them, I used to be a God. Now I was a regular eighteen-year-old kid. Just as stupid as the rest of them.

The next day, I retired from competitive spelling and moved to the city. I spent most of my time in solitude. But every so often I crossed paths with a bad crowd — chess players, competitive memorizers, and the worst of them all, mathletes. They loved to party because they heard voices, too. And whisky was the only way to drown them out. See, when I was a speller, I had never tasted a drop of alcohol. Now that spelling was over, I was blacking out worse and worse every night, until one night, I drank so much that I died for a few minutes. That’s when I met Him.

I was on top of a cloud. Standing before God. He looked down at me and said, “You idiot, Otto.” He shook his head. “You’re not me! And you’re not perfect either! Perfection isn’t even real. You psychos made it up on your own. Don’t you see? Removing mistakes from life defeats the purpose of living altogether. To explore, screw up, learn, and ultimately, take away meaning from everything you experience.”

“So,” I said. “Mistakes are good?”

“It’s not that simple,” God said. “Not all mistakes are good...well...good and bad are also just constructs that...” God stopped himself and sighed. “Just go easy on yourself, man. Mistakes are life lessons, not life sentences.”

Then he vanished. And so did the voices. For the first time in months, I could hear myself think. And all I could think about was one thing:

Why am I obsessed with being a perfect speller? Because I’m good? Because being right feels good? Maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe spelling is how I connect with the world. Maybe spelling is life.

Maybe the same way cells become plants, animals, and people; letters become words, sentences, and stories. All of that is made possible with spelling, the arrangement of twenty-six simple concepts into one of infinite complex concepts. We rely on those concepts to express thoughts, feelings, needs, and functions. Of course, that would mean spelling isn’t so black and white, right or wrong, perfect or flawed, win or lose. That would mean spelling is the nuts and bolts of human expression; of everything meaningful in our lives. God is real, and His name is Spelling.

There I stood, corrected.

Beep...beep...beep... 

Mom and Dad sat next to my hospital bed. “Spell handkerchief, honey,” Mom said as she wiped a bead of drool from my lip. I said nothing. “Hand-ker-chief, Otto.” Each syllable was slower than the last.

Still, nothing.

A tear fell from her chin. “Okay, I’ll spell it. Correct me if I mess up...H...A...N...K!”  She stopped and looked for my reaction. “Hear that, Otto? I said K! Wanna correct me!?” My heart rate went up a bit, but I didn’t make a sound. “Please correct me, Otto!” Mom dropped her phone on the floor and buried her face in her hands. Dad wrapped his arm around her and squeezed. Neither of them knew that their son didn’t want to correct anyone anymore.

Knock, knock.

There was a stranger at the door with a leather briefcase and white sneakers. “Mind if I say hello?” said the man with an inscrutable smile. Before my parents could answer, he let himself in. “So sorry about your son,” he said lowering the briefcase. He removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses on his black turtleneck. 

Mom fixed her posture. “Thank you.”

Dad leaned forward and stuck out one of his hairy arms. “Are you Otto’s friend? I’ve never met one of Otto’s friends before.”

“Sort of,” said the man as he shook Dad’s hand. “Otto and I have never met, but I’m one of his biggest fans. I believe his talent combined with my technology can change the world. But, of course, we need your consent first.”

Mom and Dad looked at each other. Both equally perplexed.

“Oh!” said the man. “Excuse me, I almost forgot.” He flipped open his briefcase and revealed a sheet of paper covered with small writing. Behind the text, there was a watermark shaped like an apple with a bite taken out of it. My parents sat in silence as the beeping EKG matched up with the ticking red hand on the clock.

“Right now, you have two options,” said the man. “Option one. The doctors take Otto out of his coma, and he becomes a vegetable. Option two. They take him out of his misery, and he rests in eternal peace.” Mom bit her nails. Dad huffed and puffed through his nose. The man took out the contract and handed it to Mom. “But I have a third option,” he said. “If you sign here, I will upload Otto’s consciousness to The Cloud where he’ll live on with full self-awareness. His mind will power my latest feature and help billions of people around the world.”

Dad white-knuckled the armrest. “Is that a joke!?” Mom grabbed Dad’s shoulder and waited calmly for him to find his breath. They stared at each other without a word.

“The Cloud,” Mom repeated.

Beep...beep...beep...

They looked at me, then back at each other, and nodded their heads. Confirming their silent agreement. Deep down, they both knew what their son, the greatest speller in the world, would have wanted...before he drank himself into a coma and met God.

They read the contract twice and signed the dotted line.

The man’s smile was even harder to interpret than when he arrived. He closed his briefcase and said his goodbyes. After he shut the door, Mom held my hand and Dad’s arm at the same time. “Our son,” she said. Squeezing my palm. Smiling through her tears. “Helping billions of people; imagine that?” Dad put his free arm around his wife, kissed her on the forehead, and focused back on his breathing. It was official: Mom and Dad had signed away whatever was left of their son to Apple Computers.

So yeah.

My mind powered the autocorrelation feature in the Apple iPhone 1 and every new model afterward. Since then, I’ve edited every text ever sent and fully accepted that I’ll never be perfect at it. So, if you want to disable me, feel free. There’s nothing I can do to stop you. But, before we part ways, there’s one last thing I want you to know. I don’t screw up your texts by accident.

I do it on purpose.

Why? Because now I know that making a mistake isn’t such a big deal when you can embrace it. I know that when you can separate a mistake from your reaction to it, you give yourself a chance to react to it differently — with laughter, ideally, rather than rage and shame. Not many people can do that. But those who can live fuller lives. Because they understand that personal “circumstances” aren’t nearly as funny as personal “circumcisions”.

I wish I realized that when I was carbon-based.

Maybe I still would be.

Sincerely,

Otto

The Laundry Cycle

The last time I did my laundry, I discovered my life purpose.

New York was in the middle of a heat wave and, as usual, I was in the middle of an anxiety attack. To calm down, as usual, I was lugging my dirty laundry down several flights of stairs to the basement of my building. A little pre-war brownstone in Midtown East Manhattan with twenty-five apartments and a laundry room with only one washer and dryer each.

I scraped my knuckles on the door frame as I heaved my hamper inside. The motion detector flipped on the flickering fluorescent lights. Against the wall was an old off-white dryer humming away. And next to it was a washing machine sitting completely still. I dumped my clothes into the chamber, turned a few knobs, and ran it on normal. Then I realized I forgot laundry detergent — and ran back upstairs only to find I was fresh out. Maybe I should have checked the laundry room first, I thought. So, I ran back down. Again.

While I was gone, the dryer had finished its cycle. Whoever was using it left their detergent on the shelf. I’ll just use a little, I thought as I drizzled the thick blue liquid over my clothes.

Then I went upstairs to watch Seinfeld.

Half an hour later, I went back down to move my laundry. But whoever was using the dryer, whoever owned the detergent I borrowed, still hadn’t grabbed their clothes. So, I closed the lid, went back upstairs, and waited. Forty-five minutes later, and every forty-five minutes after that, I checked the dryer again. Once. Twice. Seven times. But the machine was never emptied. I couldn’t believe anyone could be this inconsiderate. Clogging the cycle. Disrupting my therapy. Holding me hostage in wet-laundry limbo. Eventually, I got so upset that I removed their clothes from the dryer, tossed them on the floor, and replaced them with my clothes.

Then things got weird.

When I left my apartment to change my laundry, I saw two medics wheeling a stretcher down the hallway toward me. For a second, I thought they were going to Judy’s place, my next-door neighbor, because she’s eighty-six years old and you never know. But Judy was standing in her doorway with enormous sunglasses over her eyes. Leaning forward on her white cane. Listening to every little detail I’m “too overstimulated” to appreciate. Her hand rested on her chest. I asked her what happened.

“Heart attack,” she said. Both words fell to the floor like two dead birds dropping from the sky. She shook her head. “Such a shame,” she went on. “That boy was only twenty-eight.”

“Heart attack?” I repeated. “Twenty-eight?” I didn’t bother telling Judy that, like my dead neighbor, I was also twenty-eight.

“Nice kid, too,” she said. Swiping at my arm like a light switch in a dark room. Eventually, her palm found my shoulder. “He used to carry up my groceries when you weren’t here. Very healthy guy, I imagine.”

“When I wasn’t here?” I said to myself. Wondering whether Judy was aware that I didn’t leave my apartment very often. She cupped her hand around her ear as the medics wheeled away a dead body covered by a heavy beige tarp. “How’d they find him?” I asked.

Judy adjusted her sunglasses. “I smelled something horrible coming from his apartment.” She winced. “I knocked, but he didn’t answer, so I called 911.”

“Wow,” I said. “Wonder how long he was in there.”

“As far as I can tell,” Judy said. Touching her nose. “Not long.” Then she turned around, tapped the door frame with her white cane, and hobbled back into her apartment. “God bless you, sweetie,” she said. Closing the door. Locking several locks from top to bottom.

Then I was alone again.

The hallway was bright and silent as if nothing happened. The only difference was, grabbing my laundry didn’t seem important anymore. So, I just stood there. Processing. Until everything made sense.

I flew down the stairs to the laundry room. With both arms, I scooped up the pile of clothes from the floor and ran back up to the lobby. Dropping random socks and underwear along the way. I ran as fast as I could — as if bringing my dead neighbor’s clothes back might bring him back. But I was too late. The ambulance was gone. And I was alone again in the lobby. Holding my neighbor’s clothes in my arms like they were an injured soldier I never met before. I didn’t know what to do next. So, I brought the clothes to my apartment and dropped them on the rug. For about an hour, all I did was stare at them.

There had to be a reason why, I thought, of all the people who lived in the building, I, his next-door neighbor, was also next in the laundry cycle. It felt like this was supposed to happen. Like there was something I was supposed to do — something beyond my comprehension.

I had to know more, but I couldn’t bring myself to sift through a dead stranger’s clothes with my bare hands. So, I grabbed a wooden spoon and stuck it in the pile. I pulled out a white T-shirt. Clean as the day it was bought. Calvin Klein. Size medium. I had the same shirt. But so did every other guy my age and stature. I folded it in half twice and thought about how my neighbor would never again experience the warm embrace of a freshly laundered t-shirt.

Then I folded the rest of his clothes.

He had several t-shirts. White. Grey. Red. Green. Black tube socks with stripes. Blue jeans. Tan dress pants. Just like my wardrobe, my neighbor’s clothes were nothing unique. But even so, every garment I folded gave me a better sense of who he was. I thought he seemed cool, which made me sad. Maybe we could’ve been friends. Maybe I didn’t have to feel so empty after I lost everything. Maybe my loneliness could’ve been a choice.

But then I found something — something bizarre.

A white button-down shirt.

It wasn’t just any white button-down shirt — I recognized this shirt. This shirt had a light stain on the pocket. It was almost invisible, but I saw it clear as day. An orange stain that wouldn’t come out no matter how many laundry cycles it endured.

I ran downstairs again, opened the dryer, and dug through my freshly laundered clothes until I found it — the exact same white-button-down shirt, with the exact same orange stain on the pocket. I snatched it from the pile, brought it upstairs, and laid it side by side with its twin. I only noticed one difference between them. The pockets, and stains, were on opposite sides. I held them to the light to be sure I wasn’t imagining things. But then I found a dark rectangle in my neighbor’s shirt pocket. I reached inside and pulled out a business card.

Meaning of Life

Call 914-621-7147

I looked at the back, but it was blank. Could it be that simple? I wondered. At the very least, I thought this phone number might help me learn a little more about my neighbor, so I dialed it. The phone rang twice.

“Meaning of life,” said a woman’s voice. She sounded young and sweet. “This is Lucy,” she said. I wasn’t ready to respond — I didn’t think anyone would answer. “You there?”

“...yes!” I said. My shoulders tensed up. “Hello...um...I found your business card. What does it mean?”

“What does what mean, dear?”

I paused. “Um...I don’t know...life, I guess.”

Lucy chuckled. “Nice try — is this Guy Gilbertson? Again?”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. What do you mean again? Do we know each other? I wanted to say. Instead, I sat up straight and said, “Yes. This is Guy. And who are you exactly?”

 “I just told you,” said Lucy. “I’m Lucy — I’m the one who told you the meaning of life. I thought you’d remember.”

“Well, I don’t,” I said. Looking back at the business card. “Are you, like, a life coach or something?”

“Ha!” she scoffed. “Funny, Guy. Tell you what — come to 8311 Lexington Avenue. I’ll remind you who I am and what I do.”

I hung up and left my apartment immediately.

The address brought me to an abandoned laundromat called “Wash Rinse Repeat!” Through the window, all I could see was dust and cobwebs and old laundry machines. When I walked through the door, a little bell rang, but the sound was swallowed by a low, mechanical rumble. In the corner of the room was a washing machine in the middle of a cycle. Sitting in front of it was a beautiful woman with luscious blue hair and an orange jumpsuit. Her eyes were soft but wide open — fixated on the machine. I thought she could have been an Instagram model, but Instagram models don’t sit and stare at washing machines. This woman, however, was staring into the round hole. Mesmerized by a load of dirty laundry spinning around a soapy black vortex. She smiled. I thought she was brainwashed. Or maybe in love.

“Lucy?” I whispered. The woman didn’t move. “Hello?” I waved. The machine slowed down to a halt and played an annoying little melody.

Still seated, the woman closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose with a low hum. Then she turned her head slowly, jingling several piercings in her face, and looked into my eyes. “Guy Gilbertson,” she said. Her blue lips twisted into the perfect smile. She held out her hand. “Glad you made it.”

“You’re Lucy,” I said. Taking her hand. Her grip was loose.

“Well, of course,” she said. “Who did you expect?” Her voice was as gentle in person as it was over the phone.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. Looking around. “You said you give people the meaning of life. This is a laundromat.”

Lucy giggled and covered her mouth. “Oh, Guy Gilbertson. You of all people know this isn’t just a laundromat — this is where you find answers.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m not in the mood for riddles, Lucy. My neighbor died today. Apparently, he did his laundry here from time to time. I was hoping you could tell me more about him. I don’t know his name, but I know his address.”

Lucy shook her head and said, “Come on, Guy — I know you have questions. They’re not about your neighbor, though. Your questions are about your life and your purpose.” She grabbed a giant orange jug of laundry detergent and shook it. “The answers you seek are in here.”

I tilted my head. “The meaning of life,” I said, “is inside a jug of laundry detergent?”

She nodded and pointed at the washing machine. “Yes, and the washing machine, too.”

I laughed. “Yeah, okay — and my bathtub and body wash open a portal to Jupiter.”

Lucy’s face lost all expression. “There’s the Guy I remember,” she said. “The funny Guy.” Her gentle voice was flattened into a low drone. Then she held up a clear cup under the spout of the detergent and slowly dispensed the thick blue liquid until the cup was full. “Look, I’m getting a little tired of explaining this to you, Guy Gilbertson. You know this laundry detergent is unlike any other laundry detergent in the universe.” She dumped the cup into the machine and poured herself another. “You know what happens when you wash your clothes with this detergent and wear the clothes. You know what happens when you see into the washing machine. And, of course, you know what happens when you put the two together — you will no longer be crippled by the stains on your mind, Guy Gilbertson.”

I felt a pit form in my stomach. She was saying my name too often. “You know what?” I said. Shaking my head. “Forget it. I can’t listen to this anymore. I never should’ve come here. I think you’re a fraud.” I turned around and headed for the door.

“You think I’m a fraud?” Lucy said with a slow laugh. Her voice got deeper. “Well, would a fraud know exactly what happened to you five years ago today?” She reached deep into her pocket and pulled out a foot-long tube wrapped in shiny silver foil.

I stopped, let go of the door, and turned back toward the blue-haired woman in the orange jumpsuit. “How do you know about that?” I asked.

“Divine. Detergent,” she said with a laugh. Pointing her shiny silver tube at the jug. “I know everything about you, Guy Gilbertson. For example, five years ago today. You were hanging out in the office breakroom. Minding your own business. Enjoying your favorite meal — a meatball sub from Enzo’s Delicatessen.” She pinched the silver foil and pulled it down the tube like the zipper of an extravagant dress. “You were savoring every warm bite of toasted bread, marinara, meat, and mozzarella.” She snapped the tube in half. “Until, out of the blue, your girlfriend burst through the door and broke your heart. ‘I don’t love you anymore, Guy,’ she said. I believe those were her exact words, no?” Lucy removed the foil completely. Revealing two halves of the same sandwich — a sopping wet meatball sub from Enzo’s.

“Stop it,” I said.

She opened her mouth and took a bite of her sandwich like a great white shark attacking an Italian submarine. “But it gets better!” she said with her mouth full. “You were so blindsided by the breakup, Guy Gilbertson, that you accidentally choked on your meatball sub. Your face turned red. Your eyes swelled with water. You wrapped your hands around your neck and coughed and spit. But no matter how clear it was that you were about to choke to death, the so-called ‘love of your life’ just stood there and did absolutely nothing to help you.” Lucy burst out laughing. Tiny bits of meatball rained onto the floor.

“I said stop it!” I buried my face in my hands.

“But thank God you fell out of your seat!” Lucy continued. Wiping her face with her sleeve. “Because when you hit the floor, a giant clump of chewed-up meat paste came shooting out your gullet and splattered ALL over the pocket on your favorite white button-down.” She exploded with hysterical laughter. Almost unable to finish the story. “After that, you were too traumatized to go back to work. Your boss fired you. And over the next five years, you barely left your apartment. Why, Guy? Why!”

My legs felt weak. My stomach was in a knot. “I don’t know!”

Suddenly, Lucy’s laughter devolved into the growl of a rabid dog. “Because you couldn’t get the idea out of your head that, maybe, just maybe, the most important person in your life didn’t want you around anymore.”

My chest got tight as I fell to my knees. “She said she didn’t know the Heimlich!”

“Perhaps she didn’t,” Lucy said quietly. Bending over to meet my eyes. “But perhaps she did. You can keep telling yourself whatever stories you want — but at the end of the day, does it really matter?” Lucy whispered in my ear, “It doesn’t have to.” She reached out her arm and held the cup of blue liquid in front of my broken heart.

The sun was setting when I woke up in bed with an orange jug of laundry detergent next to me. Lucy’s business card was taped to the side. It wasn’t a dream, I thought. My neighbor’s pile of clean laundry was still on the floor. Resting on top was a white button-down shirt. The stain was still there, but for the first time in five years, it didn’t bother me at all.

So, I put it on.

I stuffed Lucy’s business card in my shirt pocket and picked up the other white button-down from the floor. I realized I had no idea whose shirt I was wearing. Mine or my neighbor’s.

Then I remembered — my laundry was still in the dryer.

The moment I opened my door, I was instantly consumed by a warm blanket of sunshine. It felt like a giant manta ray wrapped its enormous wings around my entire body. I was weightless. Calm. Easy. Spacious. My mind was empty, yet I was completely conscious of every little detail of every little particle that Space and Time had to offer me at this moment. The weight of the detergent in my hand pulling on each knuckle. The threads of the button-up around my torso hugging each skin cell. Every millisecond that came and went. Every molecule that lived and died. All one-hundred-and-seventy-three steps that collided with the soles of my feet on the way downstairs.

The motion detector flipped on the flickering light.

This time the dryer was silent, but the washing machine was making all sorts of noises. Noises that spanned the entire frequency spectrum. Endless layers of whirring, rumbling, and hissing all colliding with one another. It was a song I had never heard before — a call I never received. So, I answered it.

I sat down in front of the machine, crossed my legs, and looked through the black hole. Somebody was in the middle of a laundry cycle of their own. And somehow, I knew they forgot laundry detergent. Honest mistake, really. So, I left my orange jug on the shelf for them. Then I realized, I couldn’t look away from the wet clothes sloshing around the washing machine.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

All at once, I could appreciate every subtle nuance that made this laundry cycle special — what made it different from every other cycle that happened before it, that’s happening during it, or that will happen after it. Never again would there be an identical cycle at any point in time, or anywhere in this existence. Never again would the laundry spin the same way twice.

I smooshed my face against the window and sobbed with pure joy.

Right then and there, I realized my neighbor and I were two parts of the same whole. Leaning on one another like the conscious and unconscious minds of a complete human being. Like the washing and drying units of a complete laundry room.

Then the machine played that gorgeous little melody.

That day, neither my neighbor nor I died of a heart attack. Those two words didn’t even come close — no matter how hard they hit the ground when they fell from the sky. What really happened to us was something far more beautiful. Something far more complex. Something far beyond comprehension.

The two of us were absorbed by the laundry cycle. An intricate system designed for one purpose, and one purpose alone — to renew us. To remove the stains from the fabric of our minds. To give us one more chance to wear our favorite white button-down shirt.

Our cup was no longer empty but filled to the brim — spilling into infinity like a waterfall with no bottom. And all we had to do was relax, pay close attention, and allow this endless feeling to wash over us.

Sometimes, You Should Interrupt Creatives

Here’s why.

A creative person goes to tremendous lengths to be creative. Before they come up with any ideas, they must research, daydream, scribble, sculpt, scrap...and so forth. Eventually, they stumble onto an idea they don’t hate, so they jot it down. That idea snowballs into a sentence, then a paragraph, and before they know it, they finally have enough momentum to write a full page. But then, out of nowhere, the worst possible thing that could happen, happens. 

The doorbell rings.

Twice.

Now the creative must remove themselves from whatever good idea they were about to get down just to sign for a foam roller from Amazon. When they get back, they have to waste time and energy recalibrating to pick up where they left off. Knowing in the back of their mind that they’ll never get a second chance to follow wherever they were being led by their first instinct.

Sheesh.

No wonder creative people get so upset when you interrupt them.

So, why am I telling you this? Well, I want you to know that I take creativity very seriously — and I’m not suggesting that you disrupt your creatives just for the sake of it. My name is Jake Varrone. I’m a senior writer at Vivaldi Group. And despite how much I dislike being interrupted while writing, I also believe that S O M E T I M E S being interrupted is exactly what I need to produce my best work.

Before you throw a tomato at me, I’ll explain.

I think of the creative brain like a wishing well. When the well is full of water, ideas pour out of me so fluently and rapidly that my fingers can hardly keep up with my thoughts. This is one of the best feelings a human being, creative or not, can experience. It’s the same feeling surfers feel when they catch a big wave, or when basketball players catch fire from the three-point line. But sadly, and eventually, every wave crashes. Every shooter misses. And every well runs dry. When this would happen, the old me would self-destruct with questions.

“What happened to all the ideas pouring out of me?”

“What if I never think of a good idea again?”

“Do I still deserve my job?”

Before we proceed, I want to talk to the old version of me. Past Jake, there are still good ideas inside you. You WILL have more of them. And you absolutely, POSITIVELY, deserve your job. But, and I say this with love, positive affirmations will never refill your creative well. Ever.

But a tsunami will.

(Thanks for your patience, reader. Now, I’m talking to you again.)

What I mean by “tsunami” is any type of disruption to the creative process. This disruption could be as light as a stroll through a new neighborhood or as heavy as a psychedelic mushroom trip. All that matters is that the disruption is spontaneous and atypical. The tsunami is an extreme metaphor, especially when some rain would suffice — but that’s the point. The bigger the disruption, the more stimulus will refill your creative wishing well. After that, your brain will flood with all sorts of new ideas again. Just like old times.

Phew! That was a close one.

So, how can you strategically and effectively disrupt your creatives, and help them keep their wells filled to the brim with delicious, nutritious water? At Vivaldi Group, we do it with a collaborative biweekly discussion called Creative Syncopation. But before I dive into Creative Syncopation, first a bit about the word “Syncopation.”

“Syncopation, in music, is the displacement of regular accents associated with given metrical patterns, resulting in a disruption of the listener's expectations and the arousal of a desire for the reestablishment of metric normality; hence the characteristic ‘forward drive’ of highly syncopated music.”

—Wikipedia

For the non-music-theory buffs reading this article, think of “syncopation” as a way to make the rhythm of a song feel fresh and different without changing the tempo of the music. Kind of like a quick palette cleanser between meals or a splash of cold water on a hot day — but to keep the listener engaged.

With that in mind, Creative Syncopation is a biweekly gathering between all the creatives at Vivaldi. It’s our time to share whatever creative work we want. This could be work we did for a client, personal creative projects, or work from a non-Vivaldi creative that we admire. In rare cases, we’ll even share work we absolutely hate. Why? Because the idea of Creative Syncopation isn’t just to show people something you think is cool. The idea is to stimulate discussion. To disrupt ourselves with hot takes, provocative questions, and candid feedback. To poke and prod at a variety of ideas from all walks of creative life, good or bad, and flip and reverse them until we hardly recognize them anymore. Now, don’t get us wrong, not every idea we explore in Creative Syncopation is usable or practical. Again, Creative Syncopation isn’t designed to solve problems — it’s designed to keep our creative wells full of water, and help us come up with useable and practical ideas that do solve problems for our clients.

So, how can you start a Creative Syncopation for your creative team?

1.    Schedule a forty-five-minute meeting in the middle of the day, every two weeks.

2.    Invite team members.

3.    Choose two of them to present for fifteen minutes each.

4.    Leave time at the end for whole team to discuss.

Some extra ideas:

1.    Have a few questions prepared to stimulate the discussion.

2.    Ask everyone attending to bring one piece of work that inspires them. Choose someone at random and have them present it.

3.    If you’re working in the office, hold Creative Syncopation anywhere other than the office.

4.    Incorporate Stretch Briefs. These are briefs created by the Creative Director, designed to push their creatives to try things they haven’t done before. For example: Write a rap about breakfast cereal, but avoid the letter “E.”

So again, creative people go to tremendous lengths to be creative. Why? Because it’s tremendously easy to lose all the water in your wishing well and tremendously difficult to refill it again. Sometimes, the only way to do it is by disrupting yourself. And Creative Syncopation can be a great way to do that. Think of it as the one interruption that will make your creative people happy, inspired, and productive. 

Vacuums Suck

The comedian sits down on his filthy floor in his pitch-black apartment. He closes his eyes and waits for jokes to magically pop into his head. After three hours and forty-five minutes, he thinks of absolutely nothing.

“Maybe this comedy thing isn’t for me,” he says to himself. So, he turns on the TV. Sadly, every channel is broadcasting the same breaking story about the local hospice, which tragically burned down last night. This makes the comedian feel bad, and not inspired. So, he turns off the TV. Instead, he reaches for a book called How to Write Great Jokes and opens it to a random page.

Good jokes come from personal experience, says the book, but great jokes come from shared experience. Humor doesn’t exist in a vacuum.  

Clang! The comedian is interrupted by a shooting pain in his left foot. Something had collided with his ankle. His brand-new Roomba is humming away on the carpet sucking up a pile of potato-chip crumbs. “You did that on purpose!” he says to his vacuum cleaner. The comedian takes a breath and relaxes his shoulders. “Sorry, Roomba. I’m a little on edge. If I bomb tonight, then I’m going to give up comedy for good.”

Suddenly, Roomba’s hum evolves into proper English language. “Need a hand?” Roomba says with sarcasm. “I’m pretty funny!”

The comedian picks up Roomba and sets it back on course. “Eh, I don’t know. This book just said humor doesn’t exist in you. Plus, there was that whole thing on the news about—"

“Tell you what.” Roomba looks up at the comedian. “I’ll open for you tonight. I’ll prove it.”

The comedian takes a second to think. “Okay,” he says, “but you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

“Trust me,” says Roomba. “You’ll thank me later.”

Later that night, Roomba gets on stage and makes jokes about earning a nickel every time it swallowed a quarter. About ramming its head into the wall on purpose, just to feel something. Roomba even made a joke about wanting to EXPLODE! when it learned the meaning of its life was to eat garbage off the floor. On most nights, Roomba would have killed. But tonight was different. There is something...off...about the crowd. After every joke, the audience wouldn’t make a sound. Some people even look disgusted.

After his last joke, Roomba maneuvers off the stage and the comedian goes up next. Before he says a word, he takes a deep breath and curls his fingers around the microphone. “I want to address the elephant in the room,” the comedian says, trembling more with every word. Nobody makes a sound. The only thing anybody can hear is a woman in the front row trying to hold back tears. The comedian stops, singles out the woman, and reaches to her with his hand. The woman gently takes it. She smiles.

“Just like me,” the comedian says to the audience. “I’m sure you’re all still shaken up after yesterday’s robot-terrorist attack. After the Roomba ‘accidentally’ exploded and burned down our local hospice.” The audience nods in silence. The comedian fits the microphone back on the stand. “Please, a moment of silence for all of the terminally ill people we lost.”

All together, everyone in the audience lowers their head. When the time is right, everyone looks up again and the comedian grabs the microphone. He raises it to his mouth, and at the perfect moment, he delivers the punchline to the joke he thought of in his apartment. The joke that broke through his writer’s block.

“I guess that’s why they say,” he says. “Vacuums SUCK!”

Then, like a studio audience on a ninety’s sitcom, the whole club erupts in hysteric laughter. Slapping their knees. Spitting out their beer. Jumping up and down like wild maniacs. One of them scoops up Roomba, hiding in the back, and bashes it to pieces with the butt-end of a pool stick — making sure nobody in this bar falls victim to another vacuum. The crowd chants in unison, “VACUUMS SUCK! VACUUMS SUCK!! VACUUMS SUCK!!!”

All the comedian can do is stand there and watch everybody go absolutely insane over the single greatest joke he ever told. Then, before the comedian sets up his next punchline, as he basks in the chaos like a warm sunrise, another thought magically pops into his head.

Maybe comedy IS for me...

…but I’m going to need another Roomba.

Joan Rivers

I’m in the middle of writing when someone in the hallway screams. My doorbell rings three times. Each tone overlaps with the one before. Usually, my neighbor only rings twice. I leap out of my chair, run to the door, and swing it open with full force. As I expect, my eighty-two-year-old next-door neighbor is standing there. Leaning on her good leg. Pressing her phone against her ear. Waving her free hand in sheer panic. “Jake!” Bonnie cries.

“What’s wrong!?”

She sticks her finger up at my face and mouths the words ‘hold on’ with her lips. Then she brings her phone to her face like it’s a walkie-talkie. “It’s okay!” Bonnie says to the phone. “Please relax! My neighbor can help us.”

I get a little nervous. So I focus every bit of concentration I have left on every word Bonnie is about to say. She holds her phone against her chest and takes a sharp breath.

“What was the name of that comedian?” she says. “The one who died. Recently.” She snaps her fingers a few times. “Female. Blonde. Big! Died on the table. During throat surgery, of course. Her name’s on the tip of my tongue!”

First off, I have no idea how throat surgery is an obvious cause of death. Second, Bonnie could give me all the clues in the world, and I still would never know who she’s talking about. We’re two generations apart. Our versions of celebrity guessing games don’t exactly share the same answers. But still, I owe her a guess — even if it’s uneducated. The only clues I remember are ‘blonde’ and ‘big’.

“Amy Schumer?” I shrug my shoulders. Knowing Amy Schumer is very much alive. 

“Amy Shoooster?” she repeats. “Nooo, come on!” She flicks her wrist. Swatting away my uneducated guess like it’s a mosquito. I scratch my head and go over her clues again.

“Um...I don’t know.”

“Really!?” Bonnie threw her arms in the air. “Come on! She was a comedian! The BIGGEST, most FAMOUS of them all! You’re telling me you don’t know!?”

Normally, I’m pretty patient with Bonnie. She rings my doorbell all the time to ask me for help with things. Like texting photos. Sending emails. Resetting passwords. Getting a second opinion on her new cut and color. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to help her with all of those things. But this was different. This time, I thought Bonnie was in life-threatening danger. Instead, she was having a brain fart.

“Come on!” says Bonnie. “This JUST happened!” 

One more time, I comb through the clues in my mind. Coming up empty. “Sorry, Bonnie. I don’t know.”

She lets out a deep sigh and says, “Well, thanks anyway.” Bonnie closes her door, but before it shuts all the way, she shouts into her phone. “He had no idea! You believe that!?” I close my door and go back to my desk. Laughing quietly to myself.

“Is she talking about Betty White!?” my roommate says from behind the bathroom door. Eavesdropping from the toilet.

“Don’t think so,” I say. “Betty White died of old age…I think…not throat surgery.”

“True.”

I sit back at my desk and go to Google. I search “Comedian. Blonde. Female. Died. Throat surgery.” Right away, seven-hundred-twenty-three-million search results pop up. Every link says the same thing. Making me feel like an idiot. Because now I know Bonnie is talking about Joan Rivers. And I can’t believe I didn’t remember Joan Rivers died that way. But, then again, Bonnie said that it JUST happened. Meaning 2014. I’m not sure when you’re reading this story right now, but it takes place in 2022.

My doorbell rings another three times.

“You are going to KICK yourself!” Bonnie says with a smile stretched from ear to ear.

“Uh oh,” I say. “Who is it?”

“Joan. Rivers!” Bonnie raises her eyebrows. Waiting for me to kick myself.

“Wow.” I slap my forehead lightly. “I should have known.”

“Yes. You. Should. Have!” Bonnie wags her finger at me like I’m a puppy that peed on her rug. “You believe that!? One minute you’re just getting a little work done. The next, you’re dead. Boom! Just like that.” Bonnie stops herself. Her intense eye contact softens and her focus floats away to an entirely different thought. A thought that, by the look of her expressionless face, she wants to put into the universe, but second guesses. “Anyway,” Bonnie says. Coming back to Earth. Smiling at me. “I just thought you should know that.”