The First Chapter

    Even my friend Elliot sometimes tells me that I should write a book, and he knows as good as anyone how much I hate to talk about myself. I told him, if he wanted my book so bad, then he could write it. He already knows most of my stories anyway, and he's a lot better with words than I am. "It ain't the same," he told me. "Even if I do got better words and better grammar and spit, I ain't got yo' perspective. That what people after. If I wrote yo' book, it be no different than me paintin' yo' art cuz I be better at paintin', or kissin' yo' mama cuz I be better at kissin'. People don' want somethin' about you. People want you."

    See what I'm saying? Sucking Poet, that guy.

    You know, I was at this party once—not the good kind of party that has coolers in the living room and ashtrays on the patio, but the kind of party that has hors d'oeuvres and a dude who hides your coat—and I'm being talked at by this bearded Writer in a sweater vest, and he says to me: "No matter the story and no matter the person, everybody reads novels for the same exact reason: they just want a friend to keep them company." And I never forgot that man or his words or his tasseled loafers, because things that stupid really stick with me. What about reading a story for the morals? Or learning something new? You know...broadening your horizons or whatever. What about looking smart? That's the only reason I buy'm. I've got a novel on my nightstand that's been there for, like, two years, just in case I have a girl over. It's about genocide, or something—got a picture of a crying Angel on the front. Most expensive coaster I own.

    Really, though. I can't say that I'm too surprised to be here. I kind of always knew this day was coming. Not because everyone's always told me so, but because I've always felt that my whole life has been prepping me to write a book...and not just any book, but a very specific one. Everything that's ever happened to me—all of the people I've encountered, all of the friends I've made, all of the places I've seen, all of the significant events that I've been witness to—everything has seemed...intentional, somehow. Like it was all dropped in my headlights for a reason. Like something was trying to direct me in a specific direction. Trying to give me clues to some buried treasure...

    Aht! Listen to me! Sound like a Priest or a Hippy or something. I don't know what I'm saying. Just talking crazy, I guess. 

    But still...

    There's this question that has been on my mind ever since I thought to ask it. And by "on my mind," I mean: "terrorizing my brain day in and day out, minute by minute, taking me to the brink of insanity and threatening to push me over the cliff if I don't pay it every moment of attention that I own."

    Every time I look out the window of a car, this question is all I see. Every time I take a shower, this question joins me. Every time I stare at the ceiling as I try to fall asleep or stare at my coffee pot as I wait for it to boil or stare at that woman on the subway whose jaw hangs open like a fish, this question is there, waiting.

    I almost don't want to write it out loud, because I don't want anyone else to be cursed by it the way I am. It's cruel to unleash this question on the world...but I also know that this is why I'm here, why I'm talking right now. Even if this book isn't predetermined, I know for a fact that it is inevitable.

    Well...I'm just going to go out there and say it. If you like your life, and you're happy, and you sleep easy, then I recommend you stop reading now and go bake a casserole or something, because once you know this question, you'll never un-know it, and your life will never be the same. It'll be like mine. Ruined. Spent.

    Ready or not, here it is. The sucking question that has cost me friends, lovers, and more than a little of my sanity:

    ...what the hell is so funny?