A couple weeks ago, I was talking with a colleague (he’s also one of my coaches) about something I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember: social conversation.

When I have a role to play—director, teacher, storycoach, podcast host—I know exactly who I am and how to show up. Roles provide structure. Structures provide clarity. I know what to say, how to say it, when to say it.

But in unstructured, purely social situations? Not so much.

I listen closely. I think I have ideas and anecdotes and things to contribute. But I hesitate. Chronically. I wait for the “right” moment, or I wait to be invited in. I freeze at the thought of interrupting.

And before you know it, the opening I was watching for zips past—like traffic on a busy highway—while I sit in the merge lane with my blinker on, craning my head around, watching for gaps, foot flexed on the brake but never quite brave enough to hit the gas.

As the conversation rolls on, my attention drifts from listening to loneliness, from connection to invisibility.

Sometime I try to short circuit the pattern by tapping into my ever-restless curiosity and asking detailed questions. The gravity of reciprocity usually brings a friendly query back my way. But even then, interruptions are commonplace, almost expected. While I sit paralyzed at the thought of interrupting someone else, as soon as I pause to breathe or fine tune my thought, someone else sees the gap and zips right in. Merge!

And I shut down. I tell myself my thought can wait. But by then the re-entry point is a mile down the road and I’m still sitting with my blinker on.

My collegial coach—whose mind, like mine, is neurodivergent—assured me I am not alone in this feeling of aloneness. Neurotypical minds, he let me know, understand instinctively how to “drive” during social conversations. They don’t have to think about it. Conversation, for them, is play: switching lanes, testing ideas, weaving in and out with ease, not bogged down by the need to say something “right” the first time.

Understand… this isn’t a complaint. I’m not angry, and I don’t think socially fluent people are rude.

If anything, I’m a bit jealous, because I’m simply not wired that way. Driving is work. It takes effort. And it can be oddly draining, especially when those around me seem to gain energy from the very same road.

I don’t want to give up driving.

I just want to merge.

Title: Asking Price

Genre: short story

Word Count: approx 1100

The house itself was brick, one of those post-war shotguns, blocks and blocks of which had sprung up in insatiable suburbs like mushrooms devouring a rotting log. Two bed, one bath, partially finished basement, decent plumbing and wiring, and a kitchen in need of a facelift. Remnants of an abandoned garden and clumsy, DIY paver deck. Sturdy, weather-proofed wooden fences, separating this shotgun from its fraternal twins on either side. Newer windows, one with a screen initially ripped by a storm-blown branch and then torn wide by an escaping cat.

Inside this house, in the second-bedroom-turned-office, an ink-jet printer on the cleaned-out corner desk whirred and whirred. Pages accumulated in the collection tray.

A realtor stood a few feet away from the desk. She pulled a thick folder from her bag, and then a sheaf of papers from the folder. She handed the papers to a wife who was no longer a wife, also present in the room. The realtor offered the wife a pen with her real estate company’s logo printed on it. The wife quick-scribbled her name multiple times on multiple pages, then stopped.

“I’m sorry. I got my name wrong. I mean, I’m still getting used to…”

The realtor said, “Don’t worry about it. Just cross out and initial underneath.”

“That’ll be ok?”

“That’ll be fine.”

The wife crossed out and initialed, crossed out and initialed. The printer whirred. The house settled the merest sliver of a millimeter. No one noticed. The wife handed the pen and papers back.

The realtor handed the papers and pen to a husband who was no longer a husband, who all this time had been sitting at the corner desk, futzing with files, de-jointing accounts, untangling passwords, and making copies of life data to leave behind after he packed his computer into the cardboard box labeled “Office.” He took longer to sign all the indicated spots, even though he didn’t false start.

The husband handed the papers back to the realtor. The realtor tucked the papers back into the folder, and the folder back into her bag. He offered the pen.

“Keep it,” she said.

He held it like he’d never seen a pen before.

She gave the wife a quick hug. They were friends from college days—fifteen years ago? how was that possible?—but even so, she couldn’t wait to get out of there. She did not hug the husband, and the husband did not offer his hand. Fine by her. She gave the tiniest professional nod. He gave one back. No eye contact. Again, fine by her.

“I’ll get all this filed today and hopefully we’ll have some showings by next week. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any other questions.”

“You’re sure about the price?” the wife asked. “I mean, I know we’re underwater—”

The husband muttered something about “timing” and “bubbles.”

The realtor had already gone through all of this with the non-couple several times. She pressed her mouth into a reassuring half-smile and said, “The market is coming back a bit, but we’re definitely priced to sell. I’d be very surprised if we didn’t have a couple cash offers right off the bat.”

“Just get us out from under our loan,” the husband said. It came out harsher than he’d intended.

The realtor unclenched her molars and said, “Of course. I’ll do my best.”

The house waited as the three people in its second bedroom stood still. The printer whirred like a secret.

“OK then. I’ll keep you posted.” The realtor escaped. On the front stoop she took a cleansing breath, and made a note to follow up with the wife, reconnect over a glass or five of wine.

Back in the office-reverting-to-second-bedroom, the printer coughed and spat another page of logistical life stuff, cleared its throat, and whirred some more. The husband itched to turn on some music, but what playlist would make sense? He clacked on the computer, sending more instructions to the printer. He couldn’t leave till the printer finished. It was taking for-goddamned-ever.

The wife moved here and there, re-tidying things that were already tidy, separating overlooked items into bins or bags variously meant for moving, storage, or dumpster. The DVDs and books had taken the longest to tease apart, uncollecting their collection of stories. He was still pissed she was keeping the knife set gifted them by his mom. She was livid at his refusal to take his fair share of dishes, utensils, and furniture. It made her feel like a shedded snakeskin.

The printer whirred, taking its sweet old time.

The wife who was no longer a wife asked, “Do you want a sandwich or something?” She gulped. She had asked without thinking, out of habit, not even as a courtesy.

The husband who was no longer a husband answered, also without thinking, “Sure, a sandwich would be nice.” He was hungry, that was true, but as soon as he spoke, he realized there was no way he’d be able to eat it.

They both considered the cost of taking it back. Her face threatened to crumble. His chin dropped to his chest. Simultaneously, they inhaled, straightened their posture, and slathered fresh mortar into the bricks of their pretended indifference.

He focused extra hard on the computer and tried to ignore the inexorable press of the walls, like skin forcing out a splinter. She focused on breathing steady. By rote, she pulled out bread, mayo, mustard, meat.

“We’re out of cheese,” she said.

“OK,” he said.

“Pickles?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said.

The twisty-tie on the bag refused to cooperate for a couple seconds, and she almost threw the loaf across the kitchen.

The house had been around long enough to know the next few minutes could play out in various ways. In one universe, the husband would accept the sandwich, and then apologize, and the long road to reconciliation would unfurl. In another, the wife would start screaming and collapse on the linoleum, and the husband would comfort her. Or he would leave without a word. In yet another, the sandwich would splatter to the floor as the husband and wife had furious sex against the desk. There were universes where the husband broke the printer—and a couple metacarpals—with a flurry of fists. Universes of tense silence, universes of decibel-laden arguments, universes with tender final kisses and whispers of “It didn’t have to be this way.”

The house didn’t care one way or the other. It was simply happy to be rid of them. It couldn’t become a home—the only wish houses have, really—while those living inside left more unsaid than said.

It settled another micromillimeter, and the only one to notice was an earthworm tunneling beneath the foundation. It felt the tiniest tremor and moved on.

I’ve got a short story to share—THE MANY LIVES OF OWEN CREST—which just happened to take 2nd place in the 2022 Sarasota Fiction Writers short-story contest. While I shared that news with you all a couple years ago, I hadn’t found a good outlet to share the actual dang story.

Until now!

The story is 2225 words, so it’s a consume-in-one-sitting sort o’ thing, but it will mean this post scrolls a bit longer than what you’re used to from me. Forewarned and all that.

Fun fact: this sorta sci-fi story was inspired by Google alerts.

THE MANY LIVES OF OWEN CREST

Owen Crest didn’t make waves. Ever. And that is how he preferred it.

He kept a food journal and exercised regularly. He showed up to work on time, took only the occasional sick day—and these when he truly was sick—and spent his vacation days on solo hiking trips. He flossed religiously and resisted the siren song of social media beyond the occasional funny meme. He had a cat named Pixie and cleaned her litter box daily. He had no family to speak of, and while he didn’t have an especially difficult time landing first dates, he rarely had second ones, much less third. Because he didn’t make waves. He wasn’t boring, per se, but he was content. His contentedness ran so deep others found him aloof and indifferent. But this was not so. He simply avoided drama and saw no point to conflict. What was so wrong with routine and comfort?

So when the alumni director from his undergraduate alma mater called one day asking him to record a video talking about his career and his memories of the good ol’ college days—something to share with other alum on social media and such—he said no problem. Being agreeable was the surest way not to make waves. Even though the idea of filming said video made his stomach flip.

Owen grabbed an empty conference room at the office on a lunch hour and tried to make the video. It was hard going. He spent a good two-and-a-half minutes simply figuring out how to reverse the camera to selfie mode, and then another five or so minutes trying to balance his phone against a stack of books. But still the framing was off, and even when he did manage to get most of his face in picture, he kept stuttering and going off on tangents. Forty-four wasted minutes later, he had not even three seconds of usable footage.

A colleague returning early from lunch passed by and saw Owen stopping yet another take and puffing his cheeks in frustration. She popped her head in.

“You OK there, Owen?”

Owen explained the situation to the colleague, who suppressed her feelings of bafflement and instead offered her help. Owen seemed a harmless enough fellow, but what did she know about him beyond his name? She realized… practically nothing.

With her help, they knocked out the video with a minute to spare in the lunch hour. She handled uploading the video and texting the link to the alumni director, handed over his phone, then asked, “So when’ll this thing come out, anyway? You’ll be famous!” She laughed, but Owen merely squeezed a smile.

“Not for a couple weeks, I think. There’s some sort of alumni message board, but I’m not on that. I wonder how I’ll know when it gets posted.”

“Well that’s easy enough, Owen,” the colleague said. She was making an effort, but every drop of energy she offered sloughed off his shoulders. She forged on. “Just set up an alert.”

The look on his face said it all. She took back his phone, danced her thumbs across the screen for a few seconds. It dinged.

“There,” she said. “I’ve set it up so whenever something tagged with ‘Owen Crest’ is posted online, you’ll get an email. Be sure to share that video around the office when it comes out!”

Owen thanked her, finished the work day, went home to his apartment, heated up dinner, fed Pixie, scooped her litter box, took a stroll around his neighborhood, brewed a pot of tea, sipped three cups while watching a documentary about orcas, prepared the coffee machine, flossed his teeth, set his alarm, and fell asleep with Pixie purring next to his leg. He thought about the video not at all.

***

The next morning, Owen went through his usual routine. When he arrived at work, he opened his email. At the top of his inbox was a message with the subject: “Daily Update: Owen Crest.” He was surprised. The video couldn’t be up already, could it?

He opened the email. No alumni video, but three headlines highlighting Owen Crest. Not him, though. Three other Owen Crests.

The first other Owen Crest had won a “dream chopper,” which it took Owen a few moments to realize was a tricked-out, souped-up motorcycle.

The second other Owen Crest was listed as an inmate in a small Indiana town’s crime blotter.

The third other Owen Crest, ironically enough, was a police detective in Oregon, and had given an interview to a dogged local reporter about an ongoing investigation into a robbery.

Owen sat back. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Part shock, part resentment, part burning curiosity. He breathed out through his nose, let it be, and deleted the email. Of course the internet wouldn’t be able to differentiate between Owen Crests. His name was uncommon but not all that wacky, he supposed. That evening his routine clockworked crisply, the only difference being that instead of watching a documentary he read a big chunk of a new vigilante justice thriller novel. He slept content, Pixie purring by his leg.

The next day, another “Daily Update: Owen Crest” appeared in his inbox. One Owen Crest had published his thirteenth book about computer programming, this one focused on Linux. Another was being sued for libel. Yet another was a meteorologist who was gaining some sort of cult following for his TikTok videos, whatever those were. And today’s fourth Owen Crest was apparently a theatre director who had just opened a new show to middling reviews.

Owen’s heart sped up. Was he a weird Owen Crest, or an average Owen Crest? Why did it even matter? His vision swam around the edges. He deleted the email and followed his routines. That night, though, Pixie sensed something off. When she jumped up on the bed, she stayed down near his feet.

The next day. “Daily Update: Owen Crest.” More details on the robbery from the Oregonian detective. An economist talking about how an impending rail workers strike could upend the freight market. An executive of a media company arrested for fraud.

And the next day. Owen Crest wins 8th grade science fair. Owen Crest TikToks the weather. Owen Crest makes waves.

After a week of “Daily Updates,” Owen couldn’t sleep. His routines were tattered. He found himself clicking on every “Update” link, going down every Owen Crest rabbit hole. He quickly became proficient at social media, tracking the handles of these various Owen Crests through posts and pictures, sniffing out their hometowns and hobbies, their families and friends, their disappointments and dreams. If his work at the office suffered, no one noticed. Pixie, though, noticed her litter box was no longer pristine, and made her annoyance known by pissing on the sofa. She ignored Owen’s apologies as he scrubbed the stain, and sauntered off with her tail swishing.

Owen vowed not to read the “Daily Updates” anymore, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask his colleague to delete the alert permanently. He needed to know when his video got posted, after all.

But the very next morning… ding! “Daily Update: Owen Crest.” Only this update wasn’t about a real Owen Crest. It was about an author on a book tour for his new novel, the title of which was The Many Lives of Owen Crest. Owen choked on his bagel and glanced around the office, sure that everyone was watching him. No one was. No one ever did, really. But that didn’t give Owen any ease. Against all better judgement, he clicked the link. There it was. The cover of The Many Lives of Owen Crest. The author’s headshot and bio. The various outlets where one could purchase a copy.

Owen squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them. The cover was still there. Rubbed them. Still there. Did the artistically rendered silhouette of a man’s head sorta look like him? He puffed his cheeks, scrolled down, and saw that the author would be having a signing at the independent bookstore downtown tomorrow.

***

Owen arrived early at the signing to make sure he got a seat near the back. He resisted buying a copy. The author would start the event by reading the opening couple chapters. Owen wanted to hear before he saw.

The room filled. Cheese cubes were consumed. Free wine flowed. The author appeared. There was an intro, some applause, then the author cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, cracked the spine, and spoke clearly into a microphone.

“Owen Crest didn’t make waves. Ever. And that is how he preferred it.”

Owen sat gobsmacked. He heard not a word of the rest of the reading. Nor could he pay attention to the q&a that followed. His mind whirled with motorcycles and robberies, with science fairs and weather reports. He wondered if the rail workers strike would result in increased wages and improved safety protocols. He wondered how hard it would be to learn Linux. He wondered what it must feel like to be an inmate, though perhaps he already knew.

Applause brought him back to the moment. The author had answered a final question and taken a seat at a table, pen in hand. Owen stood up like a foal on wobbly legs. The crowd around him ebbed and flowed, cheesed and wined. He bought the book and got in line. Scribbled autograph by scribbled autograph, the author got closer. Then it was Owen’s turn at the table. His thighs bumped the edge. He looked down at the author looking up.

“Thank you for coming,” the author said.

Owen could only nod. He held out his book.

“And to whom should I make it out?” the author asked.

Owen licked his lips and croaked, “Owen.”

The author laughed, genuinely delighted. “How wonderful! So apropos! And your last name?” The author put his head down and started to scribble.

Owen wanted desperately to say “Crest.” Wanted desperately a lot of things. But in the end, all he said was, “Owen is fine. Just… Owen.”

The author finished scribbling. “Here you go then, ‘just Owen.’ Thank you again so much for coming.” The book was shoved back into Owen’s hands and already the author’s eyes were moving past him to the next patron in line and Owen could do nothing but shuffle around the table and out of the meeting room into the store proper, which bustled with readers excitedly clutching their signed copies. He found an overstuffed chair and sank into it. He opened the book, curious what the author had scribbled.

There was no inscription.

He blinked. It was impossible. He had watched the author scribble autographing ink across that title page, and even blow it dry to prevent smudging. But the page gleamed at him, clean and creamy-white. He flipped through all the front matter pages. Nothing. He puffed his cheeks, ran a shaky hand through his hair, and turned to the first page. He read the first line.

“Owen Crest didn’t make waves. Ever. And that is how he preferred it.”

Fingers fumbling, Owen flipped to the back, found the last page of the story, and read the final line.

He snapped the cover closed. He sat in the chair. The book sat on his lap. The bookstore buzzed around him. He watched without seeing, unmoored from all routines. The author left, his agent hustling him to whatever gig was next lined up. The day passed. The customers melted away. The staff puttered around, cleaned things up, made small talk. Still Owen Crest sat in the overstuffed chair. No one paid him any mind. The staff began to leave, headed to their homes. The manager was last. She looked around, saw nothing untoward, turned out the lights, and locked the door.

Owen sat. Darkness crept from every corner on soft, padded feet, like Pixie stalking whatever prey she imagined she saw. Night fell. Morning rose. The manager came in early to check the sales figures. She clucked her tongue when she saw a discarded copy of The Many Lives of Owen Crest lying in an overstuffed chair. The author had been a bit full of himself, she thought. She shelved the book and got to work.

Owen didn’t show up at the office. No one really noticed. They figured he’d gone on another hiking trip or quit or something.

A couple days later an upstairs neighbor got the super to open Owen’s door. There’d been incessant yowling. The door had opened barely a crack before a cat shot out through the super’s legs and disappeared down the stairs. The apartment was tidy but empty, and smelled like ammonia. When Owen failed to return, the manager of the complex voided the lease, kept the deposit and the furniture, deep cleaned all the rugs and upholstery, and re-rented the apartment as a furnished unit.

At some point, a “Daily Update” dinged in an inbox that hadn’t been checked in a while. There was a link to a video: “Owen Crest, class of ’98, updates us about his job and reminisces about his days on campus.” It garnered a few views and fewer likes, mostly from other class of ‘98ers, then disappeared into the depths of the internet like a stone tossed into the sea. Barely a splash. Barely a ripple. And certainly not a wave.