It was a day like any other day and I was alone in my office writing my stories when a woman, obviously a disturbed, angry woman walked in my place of business.
"May I help you?"
"I need a story," she said with fisted hands and talking through clenched teeth. She was seething and a little vein was protruding above her right eyebrow.
"Won't you have a seat, Miss..."
"You don't need to know my name and I'd rather stand and pace, if you don't mind."
Obviously, she was upset by what or by whom I had no idea. Perhaps she was in an abusive relationship. Perhaps, this story was her salvation out of that. Perhaps, she thought that I was more than a writer and could help her by writing a mere story. Perhaps, she was just as she appeared...crazy.
Surely, I'm no magician and I didn't need to be a psychiatrist to realize that this woman was insane. I only write stories and there is only so much that I can do for people by telling tall tales. By her appearance, she needed more than I could give her. She needed daily dosages of anti-depressant medication, a straightjacket, and a rubber room somewhere quiet.
"What stories do you—"
"Stand alone story," she said loud enough to scare my dog, Polo, and for him to seek shelter in his bed. "I want you to write me a stand alone story."
"You're scaring my dog lady and I don't know if you're familiar with a purebred Rat Terrier, but you don't want to scare them. They, uhm, tend to lash out...with their teeth and for such a little dog, they have very powerful jaws. They are a tough and tenacious little breed of dog that—"
"I don't care about your fucking little dog," she said setting off Polo to barking.
"Easy boy. Easy. It's okay. The nice woman is just playing. Go lie down, Polo. Go ahead. Good dog."
She reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz when she grabbed Toto from Dorothy and said, "I'll get you, my pretty and your little dog, too!"
"Write me a stand alone story," she said again spitting out her words, as she spoke and depositing a crisp, new hundred dollar bill on my desktop. Obviously, she knew my rates without me telling her. Obviously, for a hundred bucks, she wanted my standard 750-1,000 word story, but I figure this story may be a bit longer to hopefully assuage her and avoid an altercation.
I was afraid to ask for fear of antagonizing her and making her angrier than she was already, but I did. I had no choice. I had no idea what a stand alone story was. To me, there's fiction and there's non-fiction. Never have I heard anyone use the term of stand alone stories.
"I'm sorry, stand alone story? I don't know what you mean by a stand alone story. Is that a story were you are alone and standing as opposed to alone and sitting or alone and lying down?"
"You think you're funny. You think you're so smart. You're so smugly arrogant that's what you are. No wonder everyone hates you?"
"Hates me? They do? What do you mean by that? Everyone loves me," I said thinking about the stories that I just wrote that helped my previous customers Dorothy, Betty, Peggy, and Mary find their love mates. "Have you been talking to my relatives?"
"You know what I mean Boston-fiction-writer."
In the way she said my name with her reddening face and eyes bulging behind her Granny style eyeglasses sent chills down my spine.
"I don't know who you are nor do I care. I don't want any trouble. Perhaps you should leave."
"I figured as much."
"What? What did you figure?"
"I knew you couldn't write a stand alone story."
"I'll write you any story you'd like so long as you tell me if it's a fictional or non-fiction story."
