Subtext and you

It was just another lazy Sunday afternoon spent in the midst of golf tournaments, washing machines and half-dazed conversations with other hungover twentysomethings until I received a knock at the door. I shuffled past the mound of laundry blocking the entryway to my apartment and peeked through door's eyepiece to see a frail, well-dressed old man complete with red bow tie and a giant leather bound book at his side.

"Mormons." I thought to myself as I hesitantly opened the door and put on my best deceptive smile.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man said, slipping past me and into my apartment. Before I could think of a witty way to tell him to get the fuck out of my place he was already setting a perch at the kitchen counter, situated over his book and now sporting a very old-school pair of reading glasses. I locked the door and cautiously made my way to the opposite end of the countertop.

"You were wondering," he continued, "about the first time you ever put purpose into your words." He was running a frail finger over the tiny lines of his book, flipping entire reams worth of paper at a time as he scanned the volume for whatever he was looking for. "You were wondering about subtext. You were wondering when you first used subtext to get what you want. Well, I'm Doctor Allen Wentworth, your personal historian. I think I can answer that question."

I didn't really have to say anything after that. I mean, he'd already proven his credentials to me by reading my mind. You try telling your personal historian to scram. Besides, he was going to tell me something cool.

Or kill me and take everything I own. Whatever.

"It's classic Kyle to wonder about things like that, especially now," he said with a smirk as his eyes shot up toward me for a moment. "Especially now that you're nothing but a walking, talking allegory unto yourself." I gave him the glance equivalent of a "fuck you" as he relentlessly poured over the pages. He was already halfway through the book.

"But seriously, it's not really subtext with you anymore. It's more..." he trailed off as he leaned in closer to the book, then backed up and continued again. "It's more of an inability to do anything without incorporating your feelings, somehow. It's not sub enough to be subtext. You're just sort of, text." I was about to argue when he shot that cold, old gaze back up and me and said "I also have a Ph.D in English lit. I know what I'm talking about."

"Why are you just, some guy?" I asked.

He didn't look up to answer. "What, you figured an older version of yourself would come visit? That's ridiculous."

Then there was an awkward pause that lasted at least 30 seconds, which is like an eternity when your personal historian is extracting meaning from your life story. I tried to remember exactly what had brought all this on. When did I wish for the answer to such a strange question? And why is he answering this one when I have so many better questions to ask?

I mean, I wonder about a lot of stuff. I could just as easily wondered about my favorite kind of creole food, or the most mad I've ever been, or whether or not I'm wasting my time. When suddenly...

"Ah," the historian let loose in a sort of guttural squelch. "Here we go."

I replied sarcastically. "So which girl was it?"

"Girl?" He amusedly replied and let out an old, hollow chuckle. "What is it with you and girls? It's possible for men like you to be motivated by things besides women."

"I thought they loved the whole brooding, figuring out song lyrics sort of thing."

"Only the crazy ones," he grinned. "But yeah, it was back in middle school. It was... your away message on instant messenger."

"I guess that sort of figures. What did it say?" He pointed to the page and I gave it a quick glance-over. "Wow, that's like the Holocaust of metaphors."

"But hey, at least it original." The old historian stood up and pulled the book back under his arm. "And at least you've still got that," and he began toward the door.

"Wait," I implored. "I have another question."

"Oh, well," he stopped in the doorway. "I can only answer the questions you can't figure out for yourself."

I tried to think of a question before giving up and smiling. "Oh, ha, you're clever."

"Well," he said looking down at the book. "I do read a lot."