My dad and brother have a gift. They are able to tell a story that will grip people. They are so good they know when to pause to let people laugh. My dad can tell a story about the time he told my brother’s mormon best friend in 8th grade who he coached in football that he hit his girlfriend harder than this child was blocking his man. And people crack up. No one questions it or asks about morals. My brother can tell a story about when his girlfriend broke up with him and he woke up in a trashcan three hours away from his frat house, but 15 minutes from her childhood home, and everyone laughed. In fact some people will even say, “been there” and tell their anecdote about a drinking problem and the inability to move on.
Yet, my mom does not have the same gift. Most of the time she has to have my dad finish the story. She used to say, “No that’s not what happened. I didn’t have 15 Amstel Lights before I broke my wrist.” But, now she sits back and enjoys being told a story she felt like she was never there for. My mom makes up for her inability to tell wonderful stories with the ability to ask questions. She is a good listener, as long as she isn’t looking at her iPad or washing dishes. She will ask you all the 5 W’s and the H so that you can figure out exactly how you want to tell the story in the future.
The shitty part is after my dad and brother’s anecdote, it’s my turn, and I don’t have the same ability. I don’t have the problem my mom has of not being able to make up on the spot what I forgot, but my issue is I don’t know how to tell a good story. What makes a good story? Is it being vulnerable? Or being out of the ordinary? Or relatable? Is it the ability to bring it full circle? Having a punch line? Make your audience feel something? I want to tell a good story because it can make people fall in love with you. It can make people enjoy their time with you.
When I go to game nights with my brother people will always defer to him to tell the story about that time. Or when people come over to the house to eat they will ask for that story my dad has told a thousand times that they never get sick of.
Maybe, I haven’t lived long enough or wild enough to tell good stories. My brother has traveled the world and my dad has lived half a century. I haven’t left Colorado yet. Most of my friends I’ve known since I started having interesting stories, so they either experienced it with me or already heard it.
Or maybe I’m like my mom and should start focusing on uplifting other people’s stories. The problem with that is I’m a terrible listener. Usually I’m waiting for my turn, so I don’t listen closely enough. But, when it becomes my turn I tell a story that no one laughs at or has a similar anecdote making the room go quiet until someone changes the subject.
When I ask my brother and dad how they do it they tell me that they’ve told these stories so many times they know what works and what doesn’t. The first edition of the trashcan story my brother used too much time on his relationship with his ex, until he realized the funny part is when he woke up in the trash can. He later added the part with the homeless man and the cop to add more conflict. The first time my dad told his story about laying on his horn when he found out my mom was letting a guy sleep at her place while they were dating he focused more on how much of a pussy the guy was. In later renditions he told him as a man who had charisma to create some desire as to why he did it, rather than just the fact that he is insecure and loved to fight.
I have a couple stories I keep in my back pocket for first dates and sentiment, but I don’t have that story. The one that works in all settings. When I went to visit my brother in college as a sophomore in high school he told me that story. “Tell her you play hockey…” I’m not a good listener and my drug use has led to a bad memory, but I do remember regurgitating what he said and making out with a woman. But, when I tell that story people don’t laugh or say “I remember when,” the conversation dies after some congratulatory comments. That was the only time I’ve made out with a woman before knowing her name, or having a conversation where I learned her entire life story, without being able to tell the time my best friend and I of the same gender kissed for free QDoba. I decided that my best stories were yet to come, and that I’m not a bad storyteller.
Then my best story came when I wasn’t expecting it. It had everything I thought a good story needed, so my brother and I took it to the bars to see if it works. Of course I told my mom first, to get the kinks out.
“Wait, so where did you find him.”
“The kitchen.”
“How? Did you find him or Otho?”
“I found him after climbing through a window because the door was locked.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah. What a story, right?”
Then my dad came into the FaceTime.
“That is incredible. Very few people ever experience that. Remember the meat of it is how you reacted after you saw him, not actually seeing him. Focus on human emotions that is what allows people to relate to it.``
Once I got dressed and ran over some plot points with my brother we Ubered Downtown.
My brother nudged me when the Uber driver asked us how our day went.
I started to get nervous. Should I start with a shocking statement to get him intrigued? Or should I start with a setup, so the moment hits harder? I decided to start with the shocking statement.
“I found a dead guy at work today,” I said.
“Oh shit man. That’s crazy.”
“Yeah found him-”
“I’m from Chile. I moved here when I was 23 for University…”
What a dick. My least favorite quality someone has is when they usurp a story to tell their own. Shut up and let me practice my story to impress people. So we listened as he told us about finding dead people in the ocean and finding his dad shot and all that.
When we got out of the car, my brother said, “You can’t start with the good part. Save that for the end because once people hear that they will share their story or ask you questions. Start with what you do for work.”
When we got into the bar we sat down with Valerie, our favorite bartender, because she asks questions and always has time for a story. She brought over a rum and coke for me and a Jameson and Ginger for my brother. She spread her arms across the bar and asked, “How are we doing today gentlemen?”
My brother said, “I can’t be better. It’s Friday and I was reminded that I’m not the dumbest person in the world.” Great baited start.
Valerie asked, “Oh, and why do you think that?” Seeing my brother in action is beautiful. He got the exact response he wanted.
“Well,” my brother said, smiling knowing he has her on his hook, “I got a call from a dude who wanted to sell all of his holdings in a penny stock, but when he tried it wouldn’t let him. So, I tried too and it wouldn’t sell. So finally, I look at this business’s amount of shares, and this dude actually owned them all. He couldn’t sell because he was the sole owner of this business.” I can tell Valerie is engaged because she hasn’t looked at any of the other bar patrons. In fact she hasn’t looked at me to see if our facial expressions match. She is locked in on him. My brother has a job he hates and finds to be below him, yet he can tell stories about it like it’s the coolest job and everyone should work it.
“I know, wild. I tell him this, and of course he shoots the messenger. I tell him he has two options you can keep them and in the next board meeting call yourself CEO-”
“Wait, you can do that,” Valerie asked.
“Fuck if I know. I make minimum wage as a call servant. I told him that so he felt good. Or your other option is to put it on the market for whatever price and see if people buy.”
“So what did he do?”
“The idiot is holding on to become CEO.”
“See this is why I don’t do stocks. Barry is always telling me to get an IRS.”
“You mean an IRA. I mean, you should get one of those. It’s a retirement plan. You don’t want to work your entire life, do you?”
She thought for a second. “I’ll call on Monday. How about that salesperson.”
“My extension is 3356.”
Valerie grabbed a napkin to write down the number and put it in her pocket. Then she looked at me.
“What about you? Any good stories in the world of biohazard cleanup?”
Shit, how do I start this story if she already knows my occupation? I practiced my intro and now I can’t even use it. I could feel another person sit down next to me, and my chances to keep Valerie enthralled before she had to leave to make another drink were dwindling.
“We went back to a dude’s house whose wife killed herself in the bathroom. Pretty easy cleanup, we just had to replace some tile. But when we went to open the front door, the door was locked. Which was very unlike Anthony who yelled at us for being five minutes late. So, we knocked, but nobody came to the door. My boss decided he must still be sleeping. Who wouldn’t be depressed after the 24 hours this guy had? I went to the back to see if the sliding glass door was open while my boss called him. The door was locked, but there was a window I could get through.”
“Hold on, I’m still listening, I just need to help this gentleman out. What can I get for ya,” she said as she slid down the bar.
“Miller Lite please.”
She walked over to the fridge and opened the bottle.
“I’m still listening, go ahead.”
I tried to continue, but I struggled to tell the story without someone’s eye contact.
“So I crawled through the uh the window and there he was dead on the uh on the uh floor.”
“Wait,” she said, “You saw a real life dead person.” This got the attention of the bar, and one of the patrons asked, “who did?”
Valerie pointed at me, and the man wearing Harley Davidson and big beard like Hagrid said, “man you are much too young to see that.”
Then Valerie said, “He cleans up biohazardous waste. It’s what he does.”
“Oh shit, get this fool a drink,” the man said.
Valerie gave me a shot I drank showing the pain on my face.
“So wait, youngin what happened?”
At this point I have the entire dive bar’s attention. I could feel myself sweat. I blacked out, I don’t remember what I said, but once I stopped talking the bar went silent. Fuck. Another good story wasted because of my bad storytelling. I started practicing asking questions in my head. How did that make you feel? Oh wow has that happened since? Wait what did the place look like? Then someone said, “Wait, you did not.”
“Did not what,” I asked.
“You didn’t give an old man mouth to mouth did you.”
“Oh yea. That’s what the paramedics said to do, so I did.”
“That’s downright nasty. But, I’ve been there. One time…”
My brother gave me a high five as I sat back down. “That is how you tell a fucking story little brother,” he said with pride in his eyes. For the rest of the night people came up to us offering free drinks and their own story. Some people came just to learn more. As I sat there I realized I have that story. The one I can use to flirt, remember when, make people laugh, be vulnerable, and to connect with others.
I wish I didn’t forget how I told it. Since that moment at the bar I have told that story many times, and I realized people don’t care about me finding a dead person. Most people brush that off like a piece of their own hair. They think it’s cool I clean up suicides, homicides, and hoarders houses. At this point, I don’t even tell the story about the time I saw a dead guy.
I don’t know what makes a good story. But, after listening to my family’s stories I realized I lack vulnerability. Unlike my brother in the trashcan story where it ends with him blocking her and a ride in an Uber covered in his own puke where he comes to the realization that his inability to move on from one relationship has affected his other relationships. Or the story where my dad said he hit his girlfriend harder than that ends with him realizing that he cannot promote violence and actually led to the end of video games and the beginning of a CBD regiment. If you knew my dad the image of him taking CBD would make your tummy hurt from laughter. I realized people listen to my stories because they are out of the ordinary. Like a serial killer documentary. That’s why I don’t tell the story of the dead guy, instead I tell the story of the time my brother and I got drunk at a bar. I want people to relate to that human emotion of feeling accepted and excelling at something you’ve always wanted to be good at. That’s why in later renditions I added a biker and a person who told their own anecdote. I even added the part where my brother said that’s how you tell a story. The first time I told the story about the time at the bar I focused on the story, until my mom asked me how it felt to finally intrigue people. Because if there’s anything I’ve learned from that dead guy it’s that a stranger will find you face down somewhere not breathing, and then at that point people will remember you by the stories they tell of you. So you better make them memorable, even if that means fictionalizing the truth.
