The Insignificant Lyndon Marion Friend and His Idiocy
How to tell a tale of...
There are some readers (myself included) that keep stories very present in their minds, thinking of them not only for hours, but perhaps decades. Such readers, sometimes, are under the misconception that they can just as easily become writers. By devouring every word in a novel or exhaling every time they have resumed reading ‘My Love is like a Red, Red Rose’ they become fully convinced that with such lively spirits and inspired minds they could construct a masterpiece and of course, be praised for it.
Such was the case of Mr. Lyndon (Marion) Friend. As a young man he had always fantasized about becoming a bohemian writer, smoking illegal drugs and losing his mind to the extent of creating a monumental novel once a week. Lyndon Marion Friend, had read about a dozen books in his life-time, and thought those were enough proof that anyone could write. ‘Women would love me! Line up for me!’-He flattered himself too often, even for the narcissist. What kind of woman does not love the pseudo-intellectual-romantic of the 20th century, really?
As it can be expected from the present tone, none of this ever happened for Lyndon. He had always tried to write sonnets and more complicated works to every girl he had ever thought was attractive. His ego was too large to assume his writing was guilty for driving love away; he blamed his below average face, and his tall and extremely thin body. The old woman running the local newspaper had published one of his works, out of pity; she had seen Lyndon as a child running naked on her garden as her mother followed him with a bright yellow towel.
And with his spirits high enough, Lyndon moved to the city, as it is customary of any writer in the making. He walked the dirty streets with white leather shoes and sat in the park on his day off, watching people, and trying to give each face a story of its own. After being turned down approximately sixty-eight times by the major magazines and newspapers and after three years of washing dirty dishes and eating restaurant left-over’s Lyndon came to think he was completely misunderstood and that his works would all be published post-mortem.
He quit washing dishes, and thought that if he should not have his work recognized; he should help others get published. He became a typist, for the only true ability he possessed was that of pressing keys with great speed.
As a direct consequence of it, he became aware of people even less talented than him. He read it all, girls falling in love with monsters, monsters falling in love with girls, American spies bringing down Soviet Russia, ghosts in mansions, and of course, all of those stories have a happy ending.
As the reader is smarter than Lyndon Friend, I will assume that it is obvious that this could improve his esteem for himself. He often congratulated himself on his superior plots, complicated characters and clever style of writing.
This continued for years, and soon, Lyndon found himself married to a woman very much in love with that desire being considered important. He was her reflection and together they created four children, two of them vain enough to pursue a career in mathematics and two smart enough to realize their normalcy.
One day Bonnie Friend said to her husband ‘Marion, I don’t see why Jeffrey (The man with a desk too large for his stature and too much hair for a small forehead…and Lyndon’s boss) can’t give you a raise! You’ve worked there for twenty years now, even learned how to use one of those computers. And you know how I have always wanted to see Rome in the summer! It’s time you ask him!’- All said during breakfast, as she sipped her bitter coffee and ate salty eggs.
‘You’re right, my little bunny! Because of me, ALL of those writers are now wealthier than we are, and I bet they have all been to Rome AND Milan in the summer! First thing Monday morning, I will ask him to give me a better salary.’ – He agreed as his brushed off the bread crumbs off his mustache.
There was something to which Lyndon could own up; he was a man of his word. Monday, he marched to Jeffrey’s office as if there were Richard Wagner music in the background. As the floor under him creaked, he entered the egg shaped office and did not wait for an invitation to sit down.
Jeffrey, much used to Lyndon’s character, did not remove his reading glasses. He suspected this was another attempt of Lyndon’s to be made editor. He leaned back against his chair and sighed.
-‘What is it Lyndon?’-
-‘I think it’s time for a raise, that’s all! I have worked here for over twenty years, and have endured to read every single sappy and badly-written novel. I think I’m entitled to more money.’-Lyndon declared, all too comfortable with the idea.
Jeffrey closed his eyes for a second or two, and examined the situation for even less. Lyndon Friend would never cease to be a bother, but more money might silence him for a while; but this annoyance would not go unpunished.
-‘Alright, Lyndon, I’ll raise you a quarter of your salary as you have well earned it.’- He muttered, if only he could fire the man, but he was too efficient in his job to account for such a deed.
-‘I knew you were a reasonable man! Thank you, Jeffrey! I’ll bring you a bottle of wine back from Rome!’-Lyndon exclaimed as he got on his feet.
‘You did not let me finish. This raise also comes with a promotion, since you have complained of only transcribing best-seller novels, you will now only be in charge of classics. Here, I have your first assignment. It’s the translated edition of Becquer’s work. ‘-Jeffrey, for once, felt like a smart man. Lyndon’s eyes widened, he felt rewarded and flattered. ‘Go to Anne, she’ll direct you to where Kat will be dictating her work. You know how she is, only works with a tape-recorder, never paper.’
That was the last day that Lyndon Marion Friend thought himself as a writer. The minute he began typing the world’s greatest works, I’m sure dear reader, that you are familiar with them already, Lyndon began an introspective journey.
He realized that it never occurred to him to write sentences in a different order, or omit words and names. Lyndon had never given their characters human flaws; they had a bothersome time-less quality. The clearest difference, was the elegance in language those writers possessed.
And in Rome, under the burning Italian Sun and a camera tied around his neck, he became aware of his insignificance. Here he was dressed in white trainers and long pants, without knowing how to describe his situation when others before him had quickly built paragraphs and created a complete picture with one word: talent.
Such was the case of Mr. Lyndon (Marion) Friend. As a young man he had always fantasized about becoming a bohemian writer, smoking illegal drugs and losing his mind to the extent of creating a monumental novel once a week. Lyndon Marion Friend, had read about a dozen books in his life-time, and thought those were enough proof that anyone could write. ‘Women would love me! Line up for me!’-He flattered himself too often, even for the narcissist. What kind of woman does not love the pseudo-intellectual-romantic of the 20th century, really?
As it can be expected from the present tone, none of this ever happened for Lyndon. He had always tried to write sonnets and more complicated works to every girl he had ever thought was attractive. His ego was too large to assume his writing was guilty for driving love away; he blamed his below average face, and his tall and extremely thin body. The old woman running the local newspaper had published one of his works, out of pity; she had seen Lyndon as a child running naked on her garden as her mother followed him with a bright yellow towel.
And with his spirits high enough, Lyndon moved to the city, as it is customary of any writer in the making. He walked the dirty streets with white leather shoes and sat in the park on his day off, watching people, and trying to give each face a story of its own. After being turned down approximately sixty-eight times by the major magazines and newspapers and after three years of washing dirty dishes and eating restaurant left-over’s Lyndon came to think he was completely misunderstood and that his works would all be published post-mortem.
He quit washing dishes, and thought that if he should not have his work recognized; he should help others get published. He became a typist, for the only true ability he possessed was that of pressing keys with great speed.
As a direct consequence of it, he became aware of people even less talented than him. He read it all, girls falling in love with monsters, monsters falling in love with girls, American spies bringing down Soviet Russia, ghosts in mansions, and of course, all of those stories have a happy ending.
As the reader is smarter than Lyndon Friend, I will assume that it is obvious that this could improve his esteem for himself. He often congratulated himself on his superior plots, complicated characters and clever style of writing.
This continued for years, and soon, Lyndon found himself married to a woman very much in love with that desire being considered important. He was her reflection and together they created four children, two of them vain enough to pursue a career in mathematics and two smart enough to realize their normalcy.
One day Bonnie Friend said to her husband ‘Marion, I don’t see why Jeffrey (The man with a desk too large for his stature and too much hair for a small forehead…and Lyndon’s boss) can’t give you a raise! You’ve worked there for twenty years now, even learned how to use one of those computers. And you know how I have always wanted to see Rome in the summer! It’s time you ask him!’- All said during breakfast, as she sipped her bitter coffee and ate salty eggs.
‘You’re right, my little bunny! Because of me, ALL of those writers are now wealthier than we are, and I bet they have all been to Rome AND Milan in the summer! First thing Monday morning, I will ask him to give me a better salary.’ – He agreed as his brushed off the bread crumbs off his mustache.
There was something to which Lyndon could own up; he was a man of his word. Monday, he marched to Jeffrey’s office as if there were Richard Wagner music in the background. As the floor under him creaked, he entered the egg shaped office and did not wait for an invitation to sit down.
Jeffrey, much used to Lyndon’s character, did not remove his reading glasses. He suspected this was another attempt of Lyndon’s to be made editor. He leaned back against his chair and sighed.
-‘What is it Lyndon?’-
-‘I think it’s time for a raise, that’s all! I have worked here for over twenty years, and have endured to read every single sappy and badly-written novel. I think I’m entitled to more money.’-Lyndon declared, all too comfortable with the idea.
Jeffrey closed his eyes for a second or two, and examined the situation for even less. Lyndon Friend would never cease to be a bother, but more money might silence him for a while; but this annoyance would not go unpunished.
-‘Alright, Lyndon, I’ll raise you a quarter of your salary as you have well earned it.’- He muttered, if only he could fire the man, but he was too efficient in his job to account for such a deed.
-‘I knew you were a reasonable man! Thank you, Jeffrey! I’ll bring you a bottle of wine back from Rome!’-Lyndon exclaimed as he got on his feet.
‘You did not let me finish. This raise also comes with a promotion, since you have complained of only transcribing best-seller novels, you will now only be in charge of classics. Here, I have your first assignment. It’s the translated edition of Becquer’s work. ‘-Jeffrey, for once, felt like a smart man. Lyndon’s eyes widened, he felt rewarded and flattered. ‘Go to Anne, she’ll direct you to where Kat will be dictating her work. You know how she is, only works with a tape-recorder, never paper.’
That was the last day that Lyndon Marion Friend thought himself as a writer. The minute he began typing the world’s greatest works, I’m sure dear reader, that you are familiar with them already, Lyndon began an introspective journey.
He realized that it never occurred to him to write sentences in a different order, or omit words and names. Lyndon had never given their characters human flaws; they had a bothersome time-less quality. The clearest difference, was the elegance in language those writers possessed.
And in Rome, under the burning Italian Sun and a camera tied around his neck, he became aware of his insignificance. Here he was dressed in white trainers and long pants, without knowing how to describe his situation when others before him had quickly built paragraphs and created a complete picture with one word: talent.