I have no story to tell. Nothing has ever happened to me. I was born in the spring to loving parents. They were quiet and unassuming people. We lived in a sturdy white home in the suburbs of Des Moines, Iowa. We ate simply, not for lack of money but because my mother was not knowledgeable about cooking and neither parent liked anything heavily spiced. On Sundays, we went to Denny’s and I ordered the Grand Slam. School was fine. Fine indeed. I had a few friends and was never bullied. I was good at running and was picked for sports teams. I attended college and my father was able to pay for it. I had no strong passions or intellectual interests so it was hard to select a course of study. I had a good friend who told me to major in economics. So I did. I got a job in finance, married a secretary in the firm, and had two children. They are grown with children of their own. I no longer like my wife’s smell and I have nothing to say to her. I am three years into retirement with a gun against my temple as I sit in my study with no story to tell. If I had actually lived my life, I might now want to live. If only I could have felt something. I can’t even feel the gun against my temple.
