Last night I was going through another box under my bed. It had a lot of birthday cards from my 25th birthday–my last in Colorado. On the top of the pile was a set of papers, folded in half and crisp from maybe getting wet and drying. I opened it and saw it was a story, but it didn’t seem to be something I’d written.
First of all, I fold my writing in thirds and not in half. I know that it an odd distinction, but it is true. I read one sentence and noticed a southern accent was mentioned. Was it Amy’s? No, Amy never gave me copies of her writing.
I opened it up and there was no beginning, it started mid-sentence. Then I recognized it. It was a segment from a good friend’s novel. It is actually how we met over two years ago. We performed together at an open mike. I was doing stand up comedy and he was doing improv and reading his novel. This was a night that the Division bus simply wasn’t coming and I got to the open mike late.
I walked in as he was finishing or after he’d finished his reading. He’d tried to go later, because I wasn’t there and he knew I was really enjoying the novel. So he gave me the chapter to take home after the open mike was over. I read it, enjoyed it, and apparently took it home and stuck it in my desk. Now two and a half years later, there it is.