the history of me

“Bodhi” by Carlos Lorenzana

Of the many books I've read in my academic career, none have been so strange as my autobiography, which I discovered one day in a bookstall outside the Strand. Its title, The History of Me, was not as large as my name, which came as a great surprise. I have written many books and, on all of them, the title was larger because mine is not a name that sells. These were fat biographies about other people, from the anarchist Kropotkin to the magnificent Dostoevsky, and although I have entertained the thought of writing down my own story, I am convinced the story would be of little interest to anyone, especially myself. Walk into any writing class and you will be told to "write what you know". This always struck me as the sort of advice that appeals to narcissists. What else can you be if you believe the events of your life are worth writing about? My life has not been terrible but I know it isn't worth the paper the bad reviews would be printed on. Kropotkin was an exiled philosopher prince. Dostoyevsky had his death sentence commuted at the eleventh hour. These were people with lives that deserved to be remembered.

And yet here was the book with my name on the cover. What was worse, it was in the remainder bin and had been marked down to six-ninety-nine.

My first thought was that someone shared my name - my name isn't common but it isn't uncommon either. There was no picture on the back but there was a brief biography and I saw that it was an exact copy of the one that had appeared on my biography of Kropotkin, published only a year before. Such was my wonder that I considered the possibility that the author shared both my name and my bibliography; after a moment, I concluded this was a coincidence too extraordinary to believe.

The next explanation was that this was an elaborate prank and it would prove to be a fake dustjacket slipped over someone else's book. In the end, I had to open the book to see the truth for myself. Instead, I found my pranksters had gone so far as to publish a copyright page and a table of contents that indicated the book was divided into sections based on the seven ages of man. I turned the pages again. If the jokesters had created an entire book for the sake of their ruse, I would probably find page after page of lorum ipsem, the dummy text favored by printers since the 1960s. Instead, I saw actual sentences and names that I knew! There was my elementary school. There was my sister. This joke had been carried to the ultimate extreme.

Who would go to such lengths? One of the hallmarks of an unextraordinary life is the lack of enemies (having enemies always means you're extraordinary). I am forty-seven, unmarried, and my last relationship ended after we mutually agreed that the party was over. My parents are dead and my sister, who is humorless, runs a woman's charity. I don't have any friends. This only left my colleagues at the university where I am such a non-entity that even the head of my department doesn't know my name. My students ignore me - I keep office hours, but no one ever comes - and though I frequent several shops and restaurants, none of the staff have ever remembered my face. In short, if I was murdered, there would be no plausible suspects.

Which meant that whoever had done this was a stranger. But for what end? There seemed nothing to do but either abandon the book or buy the thing. If this was a game, I supposed the culprit would reveal themselves at the register - or after, if part of the scheme was to deprive me of six-ninety-nine.

Inside the Strand, the bookseller rang up the book without remark and slipped the receipt into the inside cover. The whole transaction was so commonplace that I became suspicious and, after taking the book, I studied the bookseller with what I hoped were intimidating eyes.

The man - a boy, really, barely older than my students - looked back at me and asked if there was anything else I needed. Suddenly, I was unsure what to say. I asked if he had sold many copies of the book. To my surprise, the boy-clerk admitted that he had. The History of Me had sold well when it came out in hardcover and, now that it was in paperback, they couldn't keep it in stock. This boy-clerk was incredible! A bona fide acting talent, likely torn straight from the school's acting department. I would have said more but a line was forming behind me. I was about to leave when a woman stopped me. She had noticed me buying the book and wanted me to know how much she had loved it. She had finished it a few nights before - or rather, a few mornings before, for she had read it in one sitting. Now I knew that this was a game. No story of my life could be so captivating as to keep a woman up all night. She must be in on the ruse! I looked around the store. Were all these customers plants? I suppose I could have thrown down the book and fled but I'll admit my curiosity was piqued. The pranksters - at this point, there had to be more than one - had gone to astonishing lengths. Perhaps this was some sort of reality show where contestants dupe hapless academics for sport. All right then, I thought. They can film anything they want but they won't be able to use it unless I sign a release. And I won't sign anything until they give me a cheque.

Slipping the book under my arm, I made my way home. I walked slowly, anticipating some dramatic turn. Every alleyway was a threat. Every window housed a hidden camera. I didn't imagine the television crew could trail me into the lobby until it occurred to me they might have roped poor Mr. Lopez, my superintendent, into their scheme. If that was the case, the moment of revelation would happen in the lobby and the elevator. 

Once again, my predictions fell flat. The elevator was empty. No one was in the hall and I was suddenly alone in my apartment with the same dull assortment of second-hand furniture and dying plants. Perhaps they had bribed Mr. Lopez for the key and placed hidden cameras everywhere. The thought rattled me. I enjoy a good joke as much as anyone but this was an invasion. I went through the apartment with care, looking for anything out of place. I came up empty-handed but I knew this didn't mean much. These days, cameras can be small as dots.

I locked myself in the bathroom, under the theory that it was one place I would be guaranteed privacy. Taking out the book, I began to examine it with more care. It was the most extraordinary thing. Reading the first chapter, I found the most intimate details. An early memory of my mother burning herself while making perogies. My father, a brute, rendered with empathy. Was this how it had been? The names were correct but the memories were not familiar. Then I reached the day, eloquently described, when I read my sister's diary and learned how, for a brief period of time, I was going to be an uncle. I couldn't remember this happening but I was furious at the intrusion. Obviously, they had learned certain things about my family to make their con convincing. But to betray something about my sister's life that, if true, is nobody's concern but her own? In disgust, I left the book in the bathroom and decided I wanted nothing more to do with it.

For the next hour, I tried to grade my students' essays. Filled with impotent rage, I took out my frustrations with my pen, underscoring the errors with such force that I soon tore a hole in the page. Of course, I kept thinking about the book. I began to loathe my tormentors, whoever they were. How dare they interrupt my peace! At last, I had no choice but to retrieve the book and try to deduce its origins. I found, to my great surprise, the copyright page had the name of my publisher, the same one who had published my books on Kropotkin and Dostoevsky and who was waiting for my next book about Nikolai Gogol. Naturally, I went to their website and, before long, stumbled upon a webpage devoted to The History of Me.

Now I was getting somewhere. Someone at the publishing office must be involved. They had talent in web design because there was fantastic attention to detail, with favorable ratings and pull-quotes from reviews. The links took me to other websites, indicating the scheme was more elaborate than I had thought. Still, I wasn't fooled. The online world can never be trusted. Years ago, there was that famed cartoon of a dog using a computer who reminded his friend that, on the internet, no one could distinguish him from a human. It is the truest thing that was ever said. There's not a person in the world who would tell the truth when a lie would make for a better story. A classic riddle: you encounter two people named John. One always lies and one is always honest. You can only ask one question to determine which is which. What do you say? More importantly, once you can tell them apart, who would you like better?

By now it was late and I should have returned to the essays or, better still, gone to bed. But since the author's page led me to other websites, I decided to keep following the links until I had exposed the joke for what it was. But the road was never-ending. The book was listed at all major retailers. It had appeared on a handful of Top Ten lists. Many articles commented on the reclusive author who never gave interviews. A chill went through me and I began to pace the room. In some countries, I knew, the government could easily do something like this. They controlled the internet and could keep you encased in a digital bubble, only ever seeing what they want you to see. This went beyond my publishers. Someone had hijacked my internet.

It occurred to me that the best way to combat this would be to access the web from a public place they could not control. I quickly dressed and fled the house, leaving the mysterious book behind. I was glad to be rid of it and, free of its influence, I breathed easier. The night was cool and the city was alive around me. The eerie sensations that had clouded my head disappeared and I began to feel confident. There was an answer to all of this and I would find it. It was exciting, in its own way. As I said, my life had been unremarkable. Yet here, at last, was something of interest. An adventure entirely my own.

I found an all-night coffee shop with free wi-fi and went back to all those websites, assured in my theory that the internet I found would look very different. But everything was the same. The Top Ten lists, the articles, the reviews. Was it my phone? My fear returned and I prevailed upon the person next to me, a harried woman working on a screenplay, to look something up. She frowned, likely suspecting this was the world's worst attempt to get her phone number. At last, she acquiesced. No change. The History of Me continued to exist.

I fled back into the city, my heart alive in my chest. I wandered to calm myself down and tried to view the problem dispassionately. A sensible man would go home and read the rest of the book. Surely, I thought, the perpetrator of this malevolent deed would want me to know what they've done. They probably planted clues in the text. Returning to my apartment, I sat with the book, taking notes as I read. It became a startling experience. The more I read, the more the narrative voice seemed to sound like my own. I realized something strange was happening to my memory. I knew the things I was reading were unfamiliar but I couldn't recall any of the actual events. My mother could not have possibly been on the Olympic ski team - but what had she done instead? And what of my father, who was said to be lost in a snowstorm only to never be seen again? A fantastic story but, try as I might, I couldn't remember whether this was how my father had died. It went on and on in this fashion. Names and places were right but nothing else rang true. At least, my bibliography was right. I could remember this much and, in the last section, I read with pain about the failure of my book on Kropotkin. I began to question why I was so concerned with the lives of others, the author of my autobiography had written. I decided that, for my next book, I would look inward. The result is what you have in your hands. Wiping away tears, I shut the book and saw the sun. I had stayed up all night, just like the woman I had met in the Strand.

My editor is obsessed with the two things one wants an editor to be obsessed with: punctuation and punctuality. I called her at one minute past nine and found her already at her desk, likely striking out semi-colons with her favorite pen.

Where's my book on Gogol? she said. Or have you been too distracted reading the memoir's great reviews?

See here, I said. Are you in on this? How have you managed it?

Managed what?

She sounded truly confused, for which I had to commend her. I was about to end the call when she asked me if I had received word from the publicist regarding the public readings they had arranged on my behalf.

The whole reclusive author thing is fine for a while, said my editor. But every now and then you have to show your face.

After, I sat for a long time with my head in my hands. The time had come to wonder if I was dreaming. I decided I would try to sleep because I have never been able to sleep in dreams and I thought that, if I ended up lying awake, that would at least be a clue. But I disappeared as soon as my head touched the pillow. I woke feeling refreshed, completely convinced that I'd returned to a world that made sense. Instead, I found The History of Me sitting on my desk.

Someone had decided to torment me. It no longer mattered how they had done it. It didn't even matter who. What mattered was that I confirm it to myself before I went mad. I suddenly recalled the public readings my editor had mentioned. Online, I discovered there were several appearances scheduled in the coming days. The Greater Pittsburgh Festival of Books. A panel discussion in Fort Lauderdale. And tonight: an appearance right here in New York. This had to be a blunder. I had not agreed to make any appearances and it was here their house of cards would collapse.  I would go to that bookstore tonight. There would be no event and then I would know, for certain, that someone was toying with me. After that, I would be able to dispose of my so-called autobiography and forget this whole sorry business had ever occurred.

The reading was in an independent bookstore in Greenwich Village. I wanted to arrive right when the event started and spent some time in the windy streets vibrating with anticipation. At last, the appointed time came and I made my way to the store, expecting to find it deserted. To my amazement, I saw from a distance that the lights were on and the store shone like a beacon in the wild. Moving closer, it became apparent the store was filled. I peered through the window and saw rows of chairs, a podium, a woman standing before a microphone. There was a placard nearby bearing the cover of The History of Me.

Such was my confusion that I broke into a cool sweat. If I couldn't recall my past, was it not possible I really had written a book about my life? The narrative voice, as I said, was a lot like my own. The events were unfamiliar but could this not be explained as the sort of embellishments all storytellers employ? After writing of exciting people like Kropotkin and Dostoevsky, I would no doubt try to invigorate my own life story. I felt my head, fearing I was feverish. What could be worse than the extraordinary prospect that I had written an entire book and had somehow misplaced the memory? Such things should not be possible. A man might misplace the name of a childhood friend. He might forget the face of his third-grade teacher or be unable to remember where he put the plots of his favorite films. But to lose the writing of an entire book?  

I would have to own my blunder. Go inside and talk to someone who knew me to see if they could help. And yet, just then, I saw that there was already a man sitting in the author's chair. His face was obscured by a plant but I could see his body and saw he was, like me, in possession of an unhappy belly and a suit of clothes that had been in my closet earlier that day. I moved about in earnest but, try as I might, I couldn't quite see his face. I became immobilized from terror and could not bring myself to go inside. There was applause and my interloper rose to step to the podium but, just as he was about to come into view, a latecomer stepped in front of the window. He was joined by more stragglers and so, all at once, I could no longer see anything. I couldn't hear with any clarity so I couldn't identify whether he had stolen my voice. I willed myself to go inside but could not find the strength.

I was shivering by the time the event ended. People filed out and I kept my collar turned down, waiting to see if anyone gave me a second look. If my double truly was inside, then my sudden appearance on the street should at least raise an eyebrow. But no one gave me another glance, though I can't be certain any of them ever got a good look at my face. It was dark, after all, and I was hovering near the shadows. I looked back into the shop and saw only the bookstore woman folding up the chairs. The event was over. Where had my interloper gone? Panic rose inside me. I had lost my chance to confront the one person who might give me a clue as to what had occurred.

Then, just as I was losing hope, a man came out from the alley that ran next to the bookstore. It was him! I called to my double but he didn't seem to hear and turned up his own collar as he ducked down the street. He was moving at a great clip and I found the will to follow. Yes. This was better. I would trail him to his home and confront him there. I remained at a distance but my quarry always had his back to me. Twice I thought he might duck into a cab or slip down to the subway. But he continued on foot and I pressed on, seized by the thrill of uncertainty. I was so focused on my interloper that I paid little attention to where we were going and, when he finally stepped into an apartment building, I almost didn't notice its familiarity. Of course, it was my own. There was my name on the directory. Here was my key sliding into the door. I stepped into the lobby just in time to see the elevators close.

I raced into the stairwell. I live on the third floor and thought I might be able to beat the elevator to the top. Taking the steps two at a time, I burst into the hallway panting for air. At the end of the hall, I heard a door open and shut. There was no time to wonder how he had gotten into my apartment. It didn't matter. There would be no escape. I walked steadily down the hall, catching my breath, preparing myself for the confrontation. The door was locked again and, for a terrible moment, I thought he might have put on the chain lock to keep me out. But the door gave way and I stepped into the darkened flat. Everything was as I had left it but I knew he was there, lurking in the shadows. I locked the door and, wanting a weapon, took off my shoe. I explored every inch of the small apartment until only the bedroom remained. I inched my way down the hall, lurking like a thief in my own life.

With the shoe raised, I leapt into the room - and saw nothing. The closets were bare and no one was beneath the bed. The window was locked from the inside. I ran back into the rest of the apartment. The door was shut tight. Of course, if he had unlocked it to get in, he might have locked it as he left. But there had hardly been enough time. And wouldn't I have heard it? Even so, I looked out into the hall, only to see the void and the continued question I wish I had never asked.

I sat down at my laptop, pale and shaking from the experience. I didn't know what to make of it and no longer knew my next step. I tried to assemble my memories only to find I didn't trust them. It occurred to me that if a man can misplace one memory, he might misplace more. Maybe the things I found unfamiliar in the autobiography were the things I've chosen to forget. It seemed only right that I sit down and record my recollections so I could compare them to those in the book. Perhaps while writing, in the thrall of the muse, my subconscious would reveal things I had repressed. I sharpened a pencil and sat down at my notebook, for I always do my first drafts by hand. Only, as soon as I faced the paper, I was struck by an extraordinary sort of amnesia. I could not think of where to begin. My mind had become a blackboard after the first pass of the brush: there was only fog and the original writing was obscured. The only thing I recalled were the events of the last twenty-four hours. I decided I would start there. If I kept writing what I knew long enough, the life I had lost would be knocked free. I found a clean page and I began to write, or maybe rewrite, the history of me. At least I knew where to begin: of the many books I've read in my academic career, none have been so strange as my autobiography, which I found one day in a bookstall outside the Strand.

About the Author

Joel Fishbane’s novel, The Thunder of Giants is now available from St. Martin’s Press. His short fiction has been published in a variety of magazines, most recently Blank Spaces and Event. For more information, you are welcome to visit www.joelfishbane.net.

about the artist

Keeping nature's existence close in mind, Carlos Lorenzana aspires to create abstract art which reflects the interdependence amongst all surrounding. Everything cannot exist on its own. The art explores a theme relating to Buddhist Principal, "form is void"- meaning that forms are inseparable from their content. The form of shapes and figures Lorenzana takes on in his paintings are also the forms of their backgrounds. He applies this philosophical motif through a colorful palette and a dense layered texture display. It is in the minute details that one can see the correlation between what unifies form and all surrounding. Find him at carlosmlorenzana.crevado.com.