Whose Story Are You?

Apparently, I was one of Suzanne's tracting stories. She and her companion would trudge from floor to floor of towering, Soviet-style apartment buildings and, since people didn't let them in, they would tell each other stories of their long-ago, pre-mission past to keep themselves entertained. The time at Ricks, just before she headed home, when I told her I was "seriously considering kissing" her was one of her greatest tracting-story hits, I guess. I wasn't her only story, of course. She probably told the "selling cigarettes for food stamps" story, the puppy/babysitting story, and various girls' camp stories too.

I had my own stories to tell while walking the soft, mushy, baking streets of Jonesboro, LA and Gautier, MS. I liked to brag that I made Allison J. pay me a hundred dollars because she got engaged while I was on my mission. (Other missionaries looked at me in awe when they found out I got financial remuneration for getting a "Dear John" letter.) I enjoyed telling Mark and Tony stories -- the time in Jackson Hole when Tony made me laugh so hard I actually threw up, the power dates, being chased by cows, and all the rest. I especially enjoyed telling the long, convoluted tale of how a girl named Milette broke into Tony's girlfriend's apartment and stole her memory box full of his letters and photos. It's quite a story, I assure you. Every new companion I got was treated to a tale that stretched on for many blocks.

When I was back home a few weeks ago, my brother Dan made a joking reference to his "soul mate," a girl named Tara who stalked him and insisted they were meant to be together. It made me laugh but it also made me wonder.

I have all these stories that I tell, that I've polished up to a high shine by buffing out all the hard edges of inconvenient facts, and they are peopled by old girlfriends, teachers, neighborhood acquaintances, school age bullies, security guards, and people seen across the room. But these people didn't stop living after their part in my story ended. They weren't preserved, Jurassic Park-style, in amber. They're out there somewhere, doing what I'm going, living their lives, being themselves.

Doug W. is probably no longer a floppy-haired skate boarder who likes to push around kids smaller than him.

Milette D. is probably no longer crazy, wildly needy, and unstable. (Or maybe she is but has foregone the whole breaking-and-entering part of it.)

Vanessa the security guard probably ended up marrying that guy and is probably very happy.

Anyway, I wondered two things: #1 - Where are all the people of my stories now? #2 - Who is out there telling stories about me?

As much as these other people didn't stop living after their experiences with me, they probably did tell stories of their own, some of which involved me. I wonder what part I played in their lives and what kinds of stories are told about me? I wonder about the flip side of the tales I tell.

For instance, Allison J. probably tells the $100.00 Dear John story now and then but I can guarantee it's not with the sense of snotty, self-satisfied glee with which I tell it.

And what about those stories I don't even know I'm part of? The moments that meant nothing to me but everything to someone else?

I wonder if there will ever be a time when we'll get to know our whole story and how we fit into everyone else's lives. I think there probably will be. When we do, I wonder how I'll feel about my part in the big picture.