He’s a Nobody
He’s a nobody. He sits on his spot in the coffee shop with a cappuccino every morning to reflect about nobodies and somebodies. He sits alone with his back to the wall with no one noticing and no one caring. Nobodies are invisible. They have the freedom to exist out of the limelight. Nobodies lack responsibilities of consequence. They can pursue schemes insignificant to somebodies. It doesn’t matter how long their quest takes. Nobodies have time.
Somebodies are different. Somebodies exist in the limelight and are visible. They’re not nobodies. They have a reputation and must act to maintain it. At times they restrict what they do to protect that reputation. Somebodies therefore limit their own freedom. But they have the same amount of time that nobodies have. Yet—yet!—they’re always in a hurry.
He laughs every time he has that thought.
His thoughts about nobodies and somebodies evolved over time. His core realization is that somebodies consider nobodies to be nobodies.
He brings his own cushion because he wants to reflect about nobodies and somebodies in comfort. The coffee gives him a jolt and sharpens his recollection of events.
The only time he recalls having a bloody nose was as a thirteen-year-old. He was punched and pummeled by someone he did not know while walking home from school. Near his house he noticed a group of guys he had never seen before hopping on and off the sidewalk and scooting in between and around parked cars heading briskly towards him. Without warning he was pushed into a hedge and punched and smacked and kicked. There he was on the ground bleeding looking up at someone who raised his fist in triumph. He recalls hearing something like “the poor guy is hurt” followed by the puncher’s name. He doesn’t remember everything. He does remember two things. He remembers his name. Donny. He remembers what Donny said. “He’s a fucking nobody.” Through moist eyes he watched them hustle away triumphantly practicing punches.
He doesn’t know Donny personally but later learned they have similarities. They were both born in 1946. Donny was probably in seventh grade like he was when this occurred. They both grew up in Queens, New York. But their different experiences are pronounced. His parent’s house in Forest Hills was middle class. Donny lived a few miles away in a 23-room mansion in deluxe Jamaica Estates. He went to a public school, whereas Donny was first groomed in a private school and later in a military academy. He grew up invisibly as a middle-class nobody while Donny already knew he was a somebody in kindergarten.
They have something else in common. Donny’s grandfather came from Germany, while he was born in Germany. This ironically leads to a convoluted contrast he considers to be whimsical. The grandfather emigrated to America from a small town called Kallstadt. Donny has been in Germany several times. Yet it’s not clear if he ever visited Kallstadt. The town might have commemorated him after Donny became known as a somebody even in Germany. But no. Neither a bratwurst nor a burger was named after him. The town didn’t even slap a plaque on a bench along a path in a park in his honor. Donny the somebody is a nobody in Kallstadt.
The nobody was born in a town called Scheessel. The last time he visited the town he decided to make a bid for eternity. He inscribed his name with his pocketknife into the ancient wooden gatepost of a farm on the outskirts of town. He thumped his chest celebrating the feat of this nobody becoming a somebody.
He laughs every time he considers the whimsy. His frequent laughing is evidence he is well-adjusted. He isn’t sure if somebodies are as stable. He knows the fates of nobodies and somebodies can reverse for a time. It must surely be troubling for somebodies to turn into nobodies. While nobodies slipping from a somebody back to a nobody is returning into the comfort zone.
He had stuffed the snapshot of his bloody nose into a photo album of memories he did not want to remember. He went on to live his life from one event to the next, often under stress but sometimes favorably, as is the norm for a nobody. Then a queasy feeling. The guy running for president looked suspicious. Not much later, an eruption. Boom. Breaking news in 2016: It’s Donny. The new president is Donny. Now he remembered. This president of the United States of America raised his fist when he was 13. Called him a nobody.
He is retired and a regular in a coffee shop called The Crooked Cup in a small town outside of St. Paul, Minnesota. Every day he comes at the same time with his cushion to sit on his spot with his back towards the wall. He has become a creature of habit. The barista has his cappuccino ready when he arrives.
He has now been thinking about nobodies and somebodies for a number of years with one desire. A desire that is constant. He wants to expose the transgressor. He wants satisfaction.
They once encountered each other as 13-year-olds. Now they exist in separate spheres of reality. Donny functions in the limelight as a somebody hurrying to do this and to do that. Whereas he rests on his cushion sipping his coffee unhurriedly thinking only about his one desire.
Donny has already been exposed. Repeatedly. Without mercy. Exposed for what he is. He is a fraud. A liar. A bully. A racist. A rapist. A felon. An avenger.
Donny experienced two previous attempts to assassinate him. And surely other nobodies are obsessed with schemes to eliminate this somebody always hogging the limelight. But violence for this nobody is out. Why not mock him? Create a single billboard with sequential Donnys. Donny pumping his fist as a kid. Donny waving a crown as president. Then Donny raising his arm in the Nazi salute.
He has developed several conclusions. Number one: He’s not interested in exposing Donny for what he is. That’s been done. He wants to expose him for what he does. What he does to others. Number two: He realizes his own limitations. He’s a nobody and can’t expose Donny nationally. He doesn’t have the know-how. Nor the resources. That’s why he decided against his billboard idea. And he accepts those limitations. The only thing important is to satisfy himself. Conveying his accomplishment to family and friends would be nice later but not necessary.
The only individual who knows about his quest is the barista who comes to chat with him when there is a lull in the coffee shop. She is an activist who changed her name to Zephire because she wants to be a breeze that blows in progress. He likes her for that. She is also an artist and occasionally shows him her art. She drew a portrait of a local eccentric and gave him a lion mane. He thought that clever. Today she shows him a painting of a mushroom surrounded by nature withering. Grass shrivels. Flowers wilt. Branches droop. Leaves decay. She explains the mushroom is a toadstool affecting its surrounding. What? He grabs the painting and straightens up again. He studies the painting. Continues to study it. Ah. He nods and keeps nodding. With a lucid mind he realizes Donny is like a toadstool. Toxic. To both foes and friends. He spews disgust into his foes. He perverts his supporters with his noxious brew. His supporters lose their independence. Their individuality. Their self-respect. They wither. They shrivel. They decay.
He commissions Zephire.
He maintains his habit of picking up his cappuccino that waits for him in the morning. His thoughts are focused on Donny. It’s all Donny. This morning she alerts him she has something for him. He sits and keeps glancing in Zephire’s direction. Now he becomes stiff as he sees her coming with a canvas. She holds up her painting and watches him gaze and gaze until he offers a tentative smile that broadens slowly before quivering to sparkles of excitement. He leaps up and calls it a masterpiece.
The toadstool dominates. Blond hair slicked back atop a Donny frown replaces the round mushroom cap. Crevices and folds in the bloated mushroom face look mushroomy while the rest of the body resembles a beefy mushroom firmly on the ground. The setting is a garden in front of the White House. Grass withers. Flowers atrophy. Human figures in various stages of obeisance surround the Donny toadstool. Several bow. Others kneel. Some fold hands in prayer towards him. Faces are twisted. Eyes bulge. Two further back look away and retch. Several small projectiles emanate from the toadstool and strike individuals. Zephire calls them poison barbs. And right there. Poking into the picture. The head of a kid with a bloody nose.
Zephire calls the painting The Liar. She explains that lying is a poison that is corrosive. Those working for him must accept his statements and repeat them. They repeat nothing but lies.
He takes the painting and pays for it and heads home. Perhaps no one will care. No one will notice. He’ll still be a nobody. But his quest is over. To himself he has become a somebody.
~