O P I N I O N

Not That Profound

by Nathan Graziano

If I’m going to be completely honest with myself, I need to own the fact that I do not possess any practical skill sets.

I’m nearly useless when it comes to working with my hands, my social skills might place me on the autism spectrum, and I crack like fine glass under pressure.

However, I can—sometimes—put words in front of each other on a page, and I did earn an MFA in fiction writing from the University of New Hampshire.

“What the hell can one do with a master’s degree in fiction writing?” You might rationally ask.

Well, you’re about to see.

Most stories are structured around a basic three-act formula that dates back to Aristotle. Stories typically contain a set-up with an inciting event that sets the plot into motion; then there is a confrontation in the middle, with ebbs and flows for the main character; and a resolution of some sort at the end, although sometimes the resolution is implied.

Last weekend, my wife and I attended a graduation party for our niece, and as my wife is wont to do, she was socializing while I drank beer and pretended to be a mute. Meanwhile, I overheard her telling a story to group of women about a time when she was babysitting our niece and nephew while simultaneously watching our own two kids, and all of the kids were under 4 years-old.

“Where the hell were you, Nate?” You might rationally ask.

I was feeding sick kittens with an eyedropper at the animal shelter. That’s where I was.

Being an attentive aunt and mother, my wife decided to call for pizza at a small shop in Hopkinton. However, my son and our nephew were barely ambulatory at the time, so when she went to pick up the pizza, she had to carry them while watching the female toddlers.

“So I forgot to put shoes on the boys before going into the pizza restaurant,” my wife told the women. “And when I put down the boys, who were barefoot, to pay for the pizza, the female owner of the pizza restaurant started to freak out on me. She yelled at me in front of everyone!”

“So then what happened?” I asked.

My wife shot eye daggers at me. “Nothing happened,” she said. “That’s the story. I paid, and we left.”

So I think we can all agree that this isn’t much of an actual story. So—at the risk of mansplaining—I’m going to put my MFA in fiction writing to good use and propose some more dramatic confrontations and resolutions to my wife’s story according to three popular genres.

Option 1: Crime

At the moment the boys’s bare feet touched the cold tiles in the pizza restaurant, a man wearing a black ski mask and wielding a handgun burst through the entrance.

“Nobody move,” he screamed, then pointed the weapon at the woman behind the counter. “Give me all the money, and I know you got a safe in the back. Empty that, too!”

As the robber moved toward the counter, one of the boys accidentally stuck out his bare foot and tripped the man, who fell to the ground and dropped the gun. My wife picked up the gun and pointed it at the hapless criminal.

“Call the police,” my wife said to the woman behind the counter. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Option 2: Sci-fi

At the moment the boys’s bare feet touched the cold tiles in the pizza restaurant, the lights cut then blinked twice. A bulb in the kitchen burst. Followed by another bulb. And another bulb.

Pop, pop, pop.

From the entrance, two gray creatures with oversized hairless heads and eyes glowing like black lights wobbled inside, moving with slow, jerky gaits. Below their ankles, there were only gray stubs. The creatures stopped in front of my wife and the four human children.

“What are those things?” One of the creatures asked, pointing toward the floor where the boys were standing.

“They are called feet,” my wife said.

“Feet,” said the creature. “That is what we came to Earth in search of. I suppose there will be no need for abductions. Thank you, humans.”

Option 3: Romance

At the moment the boys’s bare feet touched the cold tiles in the pizza restaurant, a tanned and handsome older gentleman with his shirt wide open and pecs bulging burst through the entrance.

“Rebecca,” he said to the woman behind the counter, “I’ve finally returned for you. I know it’s been 20 years, but I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“Alessandro, I thought you were dead,” said Rebecca, suddenly forgetting about the boys’ bare feet.

“I was shipwrecked in the Pacific, living on kiwi. It was only my undying love for you, Rebecca, and the need to see your beautiful feet again kept me alive.”

Rebecca ripped off her sneaker and placed her own bare foot on the counter, her toenails gleaming with pink polish. Alessandro ran to the counter, gently lifted her foot to his mouth and began sucking her toes. “I’ve missed you, Rebecca,” he said, his lips glistening.

“I love you, Alessandro.”

Send fan mail to ngrazio5@yahoo.com. Cash is also acceptable.