Jason's story

Jason wasn’t like most other people. Not that he really cared.

He started every day with a bowl of Lucky Charms, always served in his 1987 Klingon limited edition commemorative breakfast dish. He ordered that on QVC with his first credit card – a Discover card that now had a limit of $15,300. And a balance of $1,456. His momma always told him not to have a credit card balance. And up until last week, he never did.

But when that Dr. Who phone booth kit appeared in the back of Dr. Who Magazine, he had to have one. So he pulled out his trusty Discover card – Member since 1987 – and made the purchase. When it arrived, it was a mighty tough decision whether to open it up or not. He had a complete collection of Star Wars toys – the original ones, none of the re-issues or the new movies he was proud to say – and keeping this Dr. Who Phone Booth kit in its original state would one day prove to be a sound investment, he believed.

But, after just two nights – and after drinking four Dos Equis  after a particularly frustrating night of work as a cameraman for the local television station – he opened it up and started putting it together. Four hours later, and a badly bruised thumb, he was finished. Sadly, the booth was only 5 foot tall. Meaning he’d never be able to fit inside. Despite his boyish good looks – everyone told him that – for being 37 years old, he was 6-foot, 2-inches tall. No place for him in the phone booth. It depressed him a bit, so he got on Facebook and told the world. An hour later, he apologized.

The next morning he woke up to the sounds of bickering outside his apartment window. He hated it when his neighbors would fight. It reminded him of his mom and dad. They were divorced a long, long time ago. It cost him his childhood. Or at least having a normal one. Bitterness filled his every breath about that and when anyone mentioned it, he’d get mad. Almost to the point of using his “secret” skills learned in a dojo inside of a strip mall near the rundown Chuck E. Cheese.

Every Tuesday night, however, he was able to put on a happy face. That was story-telling night. He’d go to his favorite bar and hang out with a bunch of journalists. He didn’t fancy himself much of a journalist, despite working for a television station for almost a decade now. He did, however, understand the plight of the journalist and his salary – still making just $8 and hour, having never had a raise. One day he was going to run in front of the camera and flip off the masses in a defiant salute and run. Then he’d head to Hollywood, California, to become a famous actor. He had already befriended many “real” actors on MySpace and on Facebook, so he knew it was just a matter of time before he’d be the one in front of the camera making people happy.

But first, he had to go to the Mayhew Mansion. It was an old bar and restaurant in downtown. The bar was a tiny place. Full of misfits and homosexuals and Marines on leave. A local real estate magnet – who years later would be bankrupt by the so-called “Great Recession” ruled court most nights. His name was Jeffy and he drank to excess every night. But if you got there just at the right moment, he’d buy you a drink. But not before challenging you to an arm wrestling match. You were also lucky if his buddy George wasn’t there. George was a large fella. He served as a sort of bouncer at the bar sometimes, but also was Jeffy’s personal security and mooch. Jason heard a few years later that he had to have both his legs amputated due to diabetes. But the nights where George didn’t show up, that’s when Jeffy sometimes would fall down. And yell for help. Many patrons, Jason included, would just watch Jeffy on the ground. Too round and too drunk to have any chance of standing up. Like a turtle turned on its back, rolling around in a sad display of helplessness. Eventually, someone, usually a young woman would help Jeffy up. And a round of curse words would come to everyone. Then he would storm out, sometimes with a young lady, most of the times without.

Jason always put on his favorite shirt on Tuesdays. A gray Nike shirt with the company’s logo emblazoned across his chest. It was almost like a superhero’s costume for him. When he wore it, he knew his adorning fans would cheer for him. Beg him to tell his stories.

However, there really was just one story. But he had it memorized. When he got to the bar, his fans would ask for it.

“Where’s the story, Jason?”

“Tell us your story, Jason?”

He always refused at first. Being an actor, he thrived on tension and timing. He always knew exactly when to start the story. You can only tease an audience so much before they turn on you, an acting coach once told him. And no actor wants to cross that line.

This night, the regulars were few and far between. And his fans were drunk. Very drunk. They must have gotten there early and not remembered to tell him. So, Jason showed up at the normal time, around midnight. The bar closed at 2. So, Jason ordered three drinks to try and catch up – 2 Yuenglings and a shot of Southern Comfort, with lime, of course. He hated that this bar didn’t have Dos Equis. What would the “World’s Most Interesting Man” think?

After drinking his drinks, he tried to talk to his friends. No one seemed interested in him. So he talked about the Klingon right of passage. Everyone perked right up.

“Hey, Jason, when you going to tell the story?” a scruffy looking newspaper guy said. Jason really liked that guy. He always complimented him on his “boyish charm.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” Jason said with a chuckle, playing off the sudden attention. He could feel a blush beginning.

“Well, damn Jason. Why are you holding out on us?” another patron, a lovely lady named Marcy said. He thought she was a lesbian, but wasn’t sure.

“And to think, we brought Matthew here for his first time, and promised him the story. And you’re not going to deliver?” the scruffy one’s sidekick – Johnathan – said.

“Well, if he’s never heard it, I guess I’ll have to,” Jason said with a chuckle.

He cleared his throat and put out his hands. He wanted silence, but never got it in the bar.

“Okay. Now this happened about 17 years ago …” he began. The years never changed in the story, it was memorized. It never dawned on him to change it. Now that he was 37 and not 27. But the story must go on.

Everyone around him hooted and hollered as the story went on. Pointing at Jason. Laughing. Eyes were watery. Knees were slapped.

With a mighty “Whoosh!” the story reached its climax. He had to cuss at the end, which made him queasy, but he did it anyway.

Then it was over. He laughed his little chuckle laugh and took a swig of beer.

Everyone was smiling. But no one was talking to Jason anymore. He went back to his place inside. Where the Klingons would be there. Or sometimes Dr. Who. Jason was a time lord after all.