Here He Comes, Run, Hide!

I’m boring.  Everything, including inanimate objects, will do whatever is necessary to escape me.

A little history: Miss Wyman, why did you divorce President Reagan?
I divorced him because he was boring.

Remember Jane in Magnificent Obsession?  Blind and definitely not boring. 

I’ve been divorced twenty-three times.

Mostly I’ve married women, but since Massachusetts got gay marriage I’ve married a couple of guys.  Whatever.  Ask any of my husbands or wives and they’ll tell you I divorced him because he was boring.  I’m boring in bed.  Out of bed.  When I wake up in the morning I bore immediately.  By nightfall I’ve made an entire day boring.  Willows really do weep for me.

I wasn’t always boring.  My mother says in the womb I kicked and romped–even when I got pulled into post-womb reality, I was still pretty interesting.

Dad: “He’ll be a quarterback and cure hemorrhoids!”

Mom: “He’ll design cars and build drug stores!”

By the time that I was two they saw that I would be a boring kid.  I ate boring.  I pooped boring.  I slept boring.  I watched boring TV shows.  By the time I got to high school, even the few friends I had in grade school dropped me.

“Jason is just so… well… it’s mean to say it but…”

“He’s fuckin’ boring!”

I overheard.  I felt happy that they didn’t have to pretend anymore.  If Jane Wyman could quit pretending, I guess they could too.  High school was lonely.  College, even worse.  Friends came and left quickly. 

“Jason is so nice, really, but….” 

All of my marriages happened lightning fast.  I excelled at zippy proposals and zippier elopements.  I knew each marriage was on borrowed time even before the I Do’s.   I’ve had the same job for three decades now, but I can’t tell you what I do.  Numbers.  They do stuff.  In nervous files.

At work Pete, another boring guy but with moments of pzazz, says he’s jealous.

“All marriages should end in under six months.  Look at me, with Diane for thirty-one years—man, it is endless, like flat Coke on a warm picnic table.”

When I die, nobody, not even Pete, will attend my funeral.  No minister or priest will say “Brother Jason is now in his heavenly father’s arms.”  They know God finds me as boring as the devil does.  For eternity I’m destined to be nowhere.  It’s okay.  I’ve always been nowhere.  And everywhere.  Wherever in the universe I get stashed, I know stars will back off—even black holes, grabby and hungry, will spit me out and lock down their event horizons.  

Kenneth Pobo

Leave a Reply