Tuesday, May 28, 2013

A Fictionalized Account of Sean Enfield’s Hubris Following His Feature on NPR’s All Things Considered

For those of you who don't know, I was featured on NPR's All Things Considered as a part of their Three Minute Fiction contest. They read an excerpt of my entry over the airwaves this past Sunday. You can read it here

INT. HALLWAY – AFTERNOON

SEAN ENFIELD paces around the hallway of the International School where his church is held. Sean does not appear to be the confident writer that he thought he’d be upon the public broadcasting of his text; rather, he appears nervous as though he were waiting on a doctor to deliver test results confirming the presence of some terminal disease flowing alongside his blood. 


JACKIE LEIGHTON is rattling on about something or other. Sean is not listening. He cannot. The words all pass through him, “wah wah wah wah,” as he creeps up and down the hall. The static of the radio sings to him. It is the only noise in the world, nay, the universe. Finally, the moment arrives.

JACKIE

We’re back reading excerpts from Round 11 of our Three Minute Fiction Contest …

The words turn to inarticulate sound effects again. ZOOM IN: on Sean Enfield—his sweaty palms and face (and not just because of the heat nor just because he is a generally clammy person), his aimless stare, the nervous way he glances down at his phone to see if anyone else is listening and waiting to congratulate him, his tired eyes, his groomed moustache and carefully chosen tie-and-shirt-combination (though he would not be seen for this momentous occasion). He tunes out. The scene turns black. He does not hear the story before his. He doesn’t even hear his story being read.

When he comes to, he hears this and only this …

JACKIE

Sean Enfield of Denton, TX
yes, this is the same stock photo. I like it.

He leaps into the air … like Mario, like a freeze-frame shot of an 80s flick, like Jordan at the buzzer beater, like an Olympic hurdler over that last hurdle, like a distraught man on the side of the Golden Gate Bridge, like you might jump when the person you love calls your name for the first time and you fall into their arms. Sean lands. His alone in the hallway. Everything goes silent.

SEAN

Am I … famous now?

JUMP CUT.
INT. PAPA MURPHY’S – EVENING

A day has gone by since SEAN’s name was said over the airwaves, a day of constant refreshing NPR’s website to read the comments on his piece. It’s unhealthy living like this, but he is not one to worry about health. Yesterday, he consumed two bowls chili and mashed potatoes that were garnished with three kinds of cheese, sour cream, and something he thinks was bacon.

Now, he stands in the back room of Papa Murphy’s, tying his apron around his waist and dreading the act of tying his hair back into what he refuses to call a “ponytail” but is, in fact, a ponytail. How demeaning for an accomplished writer, a writer who, according to a Diana on Facebook, is capable of “[taking one] to that magical place Where Good Writing Takes You.”

He ties his hair into the “not ponytail.”

His team lead walks into the room.

TEAM LEAD

Can you man the front line?

SEAN (Saluting)

Aye aye Captain!

TEAM LEAD

What?

SEAN

Yes

Sean scurries to the front of the store and stands behind the pizza assembly line. The ingredients stare back at him. The mushrooms appear to recognize his grandeur, the pepperonis seem spiteful, and everything else is just ambivalent. He is taunting the pepperonis when A CUSTOMER walks into the store. The customer can be whoever you’d like, but if accuracy, truth, or the like, is your aim, then the customer should probably be Caucasian and in their mid-30s. He or she can be male or female, can have a child or two in tow, is probably a little dejected but still somewhat pleasant. Again, this does not matter.

SEAN

Hello. Welcome to Papa Murphy’s.

A silence comes over the restaurant as the customer peruses the menu. Sean stares, some might say awkwardly, but he was certain that he could see into that man or woman’s soul.

SEAN (mumbling)

I was on the radio.

CUSTOMER

What’s that?

SEAN

Uh, what do you like? Meaning pizzas, I mean. 

CUSTOMER

I’m not sure.

SEAN

Well, people liked the stuffed ones … pizzas, I mean, again.

There is a pause. PAN AROUND: the restaurant, let’s see it, why not?

SEAN

I was on the radio.

CUSTOMER

That’s nice.

SEAN

NPR, uh, All Things Considered … that’s national, you know.

CUSTOMER

Yeah, uh, that’s the N.

SEAN

Yeah … 

FADE.Soft Dissolve.SMASH CUT.WASH OUT.
INT. SEAN’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

SEAN is sitting at his desk, staring into light of his computer screen, Googling himself. This sounds dirty, yes, but we all know it is not. He is actually Googling himself. Sad, yes. Dirty, not really.

A WOMAN enters. It should be noted that this woman is not real. She is not particularly imagined either. She is something of a literary devices, someone to get Sean talking rather than just staring at a long list of nothing whatsoever. This encounter never occurred. Not really. Here it is nonetheless. We will call the woman CLAUDIA. She is pretty, ugly, and in between. She is fat, skinny, and in between. She is dumb, intelligent, and in between. She is thoughtful, neglectful, and in between. She is passionate, callous, and in between. By now, you get the picture.

She is not real.

She walks over to Sean and places a hand on his shoulder.

CLAUDIA

What’re you doing?

SEAN

Googling myself.

CLAUDIA

You’ll go blind.

SEAN

I think I made that joke already.

CLAUDIA

What’d you find?

Sean turns to her. There’s a solemnity in his eyes. And bags. There are bags underneath them. He thinks. He cannot see and does not check the mirror. How late has it gotten? Has he slept?

SEAN

I died.

CLAUDIA

You died?

SEAN

Well, not me, but another Sean Enfield. He was forty-three, married with two kids. Lacee and Devin. He had a brother named Mickey Joe. Mickey Joe. Isn’t that awesome? Apparently, his death was unexpected, but it doesn’t say how. The picture of him, the one on the obituary page, has him in the woods, hunting presumably. Maybe, he accidentally got shot or had a sudden heart attack or the deer’s family decided to take revenge. It says his kids will miss him. I’d like to think so too. 

CLAUDIA

But he’s not you?

SEAN

It’s the first result when you Google my name. Google even suggests, “Did you mean Sean Enfield death?”

CLAUDIA

Strange…

SEAN

Yes. The NPR article is on the second page.

CLAUDIA

Are you trying to find some meaning in this?

Sean rises from his chair and pushes past Claudia. He removes his shirt and pants and lies down on his mattress. The white ceiling stares back at him. It appears just as ambivalent as the green peppers, and the mozzarella, and the sauce, and the olives, and even the pineapples.

SEAN

Not this time. 

Sean falls asleep.

FADE TO BLACK.CUT TO BLACK.SOFT DISSOLVE OUT.

2 comments:

  1. Your ego should be inflated...I loved your piece on NPR!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you very much! It's only a problem for those closest to me and they've learned to tune me out.

      Delete