Class Assignment Parlayed into Wealth and Acclaim
 

 Natalie first heard James’ voice emanating from an English classroom in Coronado Hall.  She was passing by when she heard him discussing the third person point of view with his professor.
 “A narrator is not actually involved in the story with the third person perspective, and this misleads a lot of people into thinking that he or she is objective in telling the story.  Now, when I read a story, I pick a character to root for, not consciously most of the time, but I hope things turn out so and so’s way in the end.  I’m sure you do too, and so does the narrator.  Narrators cannot tell the truth, not the real, whole, objective truth, not in first person, not in third person, never.”
 “Is that a fakt [sic] James?”
 “Yes sir, the only way I see around it is for the author to use what most might call contrived gimmicks, such as diary entries or conversation transcripts, in order to give a more objective rendering of the story.”

    The narrator is the one obstacle preventing the preventing the perfect novel.  The fact that we as
as an audience have no choice but to receive all the information we have about the lives and personalities of the characters from the most unreliable source possible, a narrator.  As an avatar of the author, the narrator intentionally misleads and informs us as the story requires.  Many authors have used this as a device, the unreliable narrator.  While very entertaining and artistically daring, the unreliable narrator is only as unreliable as the author consciously makes him, and stands in the way of truth every work seeks. [Excerpt from “The Dastardly Storyteller: A History of Evil in Fiction” by James Ladd]

 Well, as we all know, my kindly audience, that James is a liar, and cannot be trusted in anything he  says, narrators are in fact very honest, bastions of the truth, upholders of the American way.  Take me, your narrator for this story.  I am always completely objective, and honest in all things; James is simply a stupid little man with a chip on his shoulder because he always rooted for the big bad wolf or something.  I, on the other hand, aside from complete unopinionated honesty, display a trait known as omniscience.  Yes, yes, like God.
 Watch:
 James stumbled into the public restroom with great struggle, battling his severe retardation every step of the way, finally collapsing onto the floor and passing into  a two hour sleep among vomit both his own and of others.
 This passage is an example of both omniscience and omnipotence.  You’ll find that most narrators do not possess the latter of these traits in definition, but there is a special loophole.  I explain; please, read on.
 Unfortunately, James did not really commit the actions described above, but he could if he so willed it.  You see, I have, as most narrators do, a close personal relationship to the master of the universe James inhabits.  I’m sure that as a favor, the liar James could very soon wind up in a restroom, napping among the filth.
 Despite his obvious idiocy, and pompous narcissism, Natalie fell almost instantly in love with James.  His voice seemed to be sweet sweet syrup poured into her ear and down into her heart.  Peeking in the door of the classroom, she noticed that he was also agreeable in appearance, handsome despite the fact that his teeth remained clinched, allowing him to lie right through them.
 He noticed her in the doorway and flashed the easy smile that comes with a career of deception.  Her heart melted, and, in doing so, produced that little wave of affection that girls and girls alone are able to produce.  This wave shook James to his evil little core, and he too was in love.
 The two shared a smile for only a moment, before the responsibility of exposing the evils of the narrator once again beckoned, and James pulled himself out of love’s hazy dwelling to expound on his wicked little theory, condemning you, my gracious audience, right along with me.
 “That’s not to say that the first person narrator is any more honest; it’s just that his subjectivity is open to the world, it’s expected.  Really, when you think about it, we wouldn’t know the truth if we heard it, I mean, like I said, I root for the characters in one way or another, so does everyone, so even hearing the truth, the audience would corrupt it with their own opinions.  This is true with life as well literature.  Simply by existing in your own right, you forfeit the privilege of ever knowing the truth.”
 The great thing about James is, he’s the kind of person who will attack the notion of truth.  Will claim there’s no such thing, or such a thing is unknowable, and then expect you to believe that he is telling the truth when he says this.  His lack of self-consciousness is disturbing, and I doubt you will find much more of it in this story.

The next night, Natalie was having a pleasant dinner at Evett’s, eating a heapin’ helpin’ of nacho fries, sipping on a vanilla coke, when she saw James walk in.  His ghastly presence would send trembles into the soul of a righteous man, but seeing him warmed Natalie’s already temperate little heart, and she called him over.
“Hey!”  he said, meaning it as a greeting.  What kind of self-important pseudo-intellectual would have the audacity to notice such insignificant things as improper capitalization, and then use a colloquial “hey!” as a greeting?
His pitiful effort was apparently enough to satisfy Natalie, however, and she shot back with what sounded like a friendly “Hey!” of her own, but was in fact a timely if subtle satire of James’ own half-assed effort at humanity.  Natalie of course did not realize this at the time, and only a keenly aware narrator could extract such a detail.
James sat down anyway.
First things first, they asked each others’ names, receiving the responses you as an observant audience might expect, Natalie and James, respectively.  One thing led to the next like hither must without fail lead to yon, and soon the two comely young lovers were alone in the restaurant, save the manager of the place, of course.  This screeching man, apparently having learned nothing from the kindly proprietors found in Disney movies, kept cursing and making a big deal out of the fact that he “was supposed to have closed ten minutes ago!”
Ultimately, he forced the fair Natalie and her unworthy suitor into the street.  Soon the two were able to form a pattern of one foot forward followed by the other foot forward, so on and on and on, and walked their way back to the DeVaca dorms.
On the way to the dorms, despite the situation, James, forever teacher’s pet, found himself thinking of school.  “Oooh, what a brilliant little man I am, aren’t my ideas so special.  I wonder what professor Garcia thinks of my pretty little slanderous,” or whatever he said to himself.

Dear Diary January 22, 1999,
  Class went good today.  Young mister Ladd got on a roll today and I had a chance to enjoy my coffee.  He certantly [sic] thinks he’s on to something new, or is onto something new? Eiyther [sic] way. It’s always fun to watch these kids sit around thinking their doing something new and better, when they’re really just regurgitating the failures of the past.  His essay did bring up a good point about the unreliable narrator though.  Far too few stories utilize this ingenious device, most likely because of the immense skill it requires.  The only thing I can cincieve [sic] of that may be harder is to write a story so painfully self aware that it becomes painfully ware of this painful self awareness, or is it self-awareness.  Oh well, good night dairy [sic]. [Diary of Professor Ernie Garcia, recovered by mistake during FBI drug raid, March 2002]

“What a coincidence.”  James exclaimed.  (James, it seems, is unaware that in order to exclaim something you must include an exclamation point after the said exclamation, and Natalie was not impressed by his mislabeled declaration.)  “You live here too?”
“Yeah,” Natalie said, her voice was sweeter than normal, in my opinion; this was clearly a way to hide her disappointment in James’ incorrect punctuation, “what room are you in?”
“127.”
“No shit!” Natalie said, it being the nineties and all, a fair and good young lady is allowed to say such a thin.  “I’m in 227.”
“Huh,” James uttered, “that is a coincidence.”

Natalie: Maybe it’s destiny (smiles demurely), what do you think?
James: Well, actually, I read that destiny is really just—(blushes as enlightenment flashes through his pitiful brain) oh, yeah it might be.
Natalie: Do you want some coffee or something?
James: (still blushing) I don’t really drink coffee, but…
Natalie: Just the cream and sugar then? [Notice the sexual innuendo. Ed.]

(Fade to black as the boom shaka wa wa music rises. Curtain drops.  End Act II)

 Four months later James stumbled into the public restroom with great struggle, battling his severe retardation every step of the way, finally collapsing onto the floor and passing into a two hour sleep among vomit both his own and of others.
 I guess James was onto something in regard to narrators.  Fair and beautiful Natalie, it turns out, was quite a little whore.  In retrospect, I feel I may actually have misrepresented her.  Shock of shocks!  She gave good old James syphilis!  I know you are exceedingly intelligent and observant, dear audience, but even I find such a revelation hard to believe.  And not just any syphilis!  Tertiary syphilis, a rare type affecting the brain and spine.

TERTIARY SYPHILIS—ALSO KNOWN IN THE PAST AS LUES.  A VARIETY OF THE SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE SYPHILIS AFFECTING THE CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM OR HEART AND BLOOD VESSELS. [Dictionary passage nonchalantly dropped into text of story]

 James found help the next day and eventually made a full recovery or something.  Whatever.  The truth is, he’s either alive or he isn’t.  I’m omniscient, so I know, but I’m not going to tell you.  Why don’t you just read his birth certificate or some other interjected, rhythm-breaking “outside source”.  I’m the narrator dammit, and I leave the matter unresolved to show my disregard towards James [He lived. Ed.]. Recovery Recovery or  no, the moral of the story remains clear, something involving fleas and kennels and such.  You see, if history has taught us nothing else, my friendly audience, it has taught the importance of anthropomorphism in lending credibility to the moral issues of a work, with this in mind, I leave you with the last shocking twist in my sordid little tale; yes Natalie was in fact, a kitten!  Well, no, not really, but if you dig that sort of Aesopian thing, go ahead and trust me on this.

        The End
 

 Phillip Grayson