Chapter 29: The Worst Day Of My Life

Suddenly the scene shifted. We stood in the autumn cold in a wooded area near a trail. The leaves had all fallen. The air was crisp. I knew what was coming because I’d lived it. And I’d written it. “You’re ready to face this now,” said God. I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t even sure I could narrate it. “Someone’s got to f**ing narrate it,” said God. “I don’t want to be stuck here for eternity.” The Not Quite Omniscient Narrator began to metanarrate hoping that God would find the metanarration acceptable. When God made no objection, the Not Quite Omniscient Narrator began to narrate. A young man, looking worried, ran past them. He continued for about a quarter mile beyond, then stopped. He looked around, shouted something, then ran another quarter mile up the road, and out of sight. A few minutes later they saw him running back. He passed again, and continued off in the other direction, running until they could no longer see him. In a few minutes he ran back. The author looked at the man’s face as he approached. He was crying. He looked like shit. “That’s me, isn’t it?” he asked God. “Yep.” God confirmed. “That the worst day I can remember,” he said. “The very worst.” “So far,” God said. That wasn’t very encouraging. He didn’t know if God meant that he’d had worse days that he couldn’t remember, or if there were worse days yet to come. It didn’t matter. This day was bad enough. “I remember what happened,” he said. He remembered taking his daughters, Mira and Dana, and a friend of Mira’s hiking on Mount Monadnock in New Hampshire. Dana and Mira were squabbling. They couldn’t agree on anything, and he was getting pissed off. When it came time to go back down the trail, Dana wanted to go back the way that they’d come, and Mira wanted to take a different trail. The trails are well marked, he had thought. What could go wrong. So he let let Mira and her friend go down the trail they wanted while he and Dana went back the way they’d come. They reached the parking area and waited for Mira and her friend. And waited. And waited. And waited. “Shit!” I said. “I remember that!” He started to panic. It was starting to get dark. And cold. He imagined the two kids lost somewhere in the dense woods. He imagined their fear as night closed in and temperatures dropped. He imagined search parties out looking for them, hampered by a late start and dark­ ness. “Sorry, sir,” a kindly imagined state ranger said. “We’ll have to call off the search until to­ morrow morning, by which time both kids will be dead. But don’t worry. They don’t kill crimin­ ally negligent people like you any more, even though you deserve it. We’re much less kind, even though we pretend we’re more humane. We’ll let you spend the rest of your life in guilt and misery, wishing you hadn’t been such a jerk. Wishing you’d been a responsible parent, instead of Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies a self-indulgent asshole who preferred to avoid a little mental discomfort at the cost of two dead kids.” “Yes,” he smiled. “You’ll spend the rest of your life playing the whole scene over and over and over in our head. And you know what? It’s always going to come out the same way: with two dead kids. Kids who were dead because of your selfishness, irresponsibility, and stupidity.” “And by the way,” the imaginary ranger continued, “the parents of that other dead kid are going to sue you for everything that you’ve got. They’re going to win, of course, because you’re a scumbag and juries like to send scumbags to prison. You’ll spend the rest of your life locked up, being raped by a 280 pound guy covered with tattoos, which you’ll grow to appreciate be­ cause it’s the only time you won’t be thinking about how badly you fucked up, you self-indul­ gent asshole. And your wife and your other children will be thrown out of their nice house, of course. And the only place they’ll be able to afford will be a slum, where your daughters… “Stop!” I shouted at the trooper in my head. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” But the trooper didn’t stop. He chattered on in the author’s head as he ran up and down the road frantic, calling for the kids, imagining his own bad outcomes, the trooper in his head, the judge in his head, the neighbors in his head, his wife in his head, dead kids in his head. His fu­ ture, horrible life in his head. Now instead of running back to the parking lot, he checked in at the at the end of the lot, pretending to be far less worried than he was. Would he be the idiot who panicked and called out unnecessary search parties? Or would he be the idiot who didn’t panic and let two kids die of ex­ posure. Or would he be what he was right now: an idiot letting his imagination run away with him. “It all turned out alright,” said God. “Didn’t it?” “Yes,” I said. “They walked down the trail to the bottom, checked in there, and the ranger down there called the ranger at the top. It might have only been a half-hour, but it seemed like days.” “So,” said God. “Can you enjoy what happened?” “Hell, no!” I said. “If anything had happened to those kids it would have been a disaster. My life would have been ruined. My family’s life would have been ruined. There’s nothing to enjoy about what happened. Nothing. Nothing.” Thinking about it, all these years later, typing this chapter, I started to cry. “Here,” God said, handing me a tissue. “I really want you to think about this. Go someplace safe, and think about it.” “Where?” I asked. “What’s a safe place?” “Make one,” said God. “Now!” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for D*mmies