The Self-Affirmator
A Novel by David G. Cookson
Author’s note: this is
a period piece, the events take place in the late 2000s and I have changed a
few things. But what you are about to read is pretty much the same as when I
first wrote it back in 2009. You are the first people to have read it. It took
me that long to get over myself and put this out into the world. I hope you
enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Part 1.
Chapter 1:
Audrey Robbins.
“Be the best you that you can be the best at.”
I am on time for work, I say to myself. I am walking in to work
early, I am having a great day….
My name is Audrey Robbins. My ex-husband, just to make it clear from the start,
is world famous self-help and self-improvement guru Franklin T. Robbins.
I used to know him as “Frank,” but when he got on this kick of “helping “people
he chose to go by the more familiar and “friendly” sounding “Frankie.”
So, if anyone wants to know, I am the former wife of “Frankie” Robbins, and no,
I haven’t made a dime off that.
The important thing to
know is that at times like this, when I am running late or things are going
crappy, I have him in my head, and frankly it really pisses me off. Unlike him,
I don’t look at the world as “a rose to be plucked for its beauty.” I don’t try
to “maintain a cheerful attitude at all times,” I don’t have “eternal Faith” in
myself. Most of the time I don’t even bother to smile. I’m just trying to live
my life, such as it is these days. I can’t help it if our years together
and his words still stay with me.
I was walking to work
on this day, and as I said, it was at these times when I could not get his
voice out of my head. But really, at this point anyone living in America
at any one time could have the positive affirmations of Frankie Robbins going
through his or her head. It was unavoidable, or at least it felt that
way.
Keep walking, keep
walking, you’re gonna make it on time.
My job is a mere…15 and a half minute walk from my house on the west side…that
is, it’s that long when I get out, don’t get stopped by my chatty neighbor (he’s
really a sweet old man, and I just can’t avoid him or be mean to him) by Mike
the panhandler (some days I help him, other days I don’t) or that fucking
god-awful long traffic light on Franklin, which is a 6 lane city street that
separates the downtown from where I live on the West side. I’ll get to
that later, where I live and why.
For now, though, I was running late, trying to convince myself that I wouldn’t
be. The truth was…it probably was going to be one of those days.
As I crossed over
Franklin after the light from hell (4
minutes!) I broke into one of those shuffle/ runs to get into the homestretch
of the entrance to work.
It’s only 9:04...but I
hated being late for all the questions it
inevitably raised from the other people I worked with…”what’s wrong,
Audrey?” “why are you sweating?” and my personal favorite “Are you okay?”
Fuck…just leave me alone.
I am an administrative assistant. For whatever reason when I tell people
who I am and what I do I make a jerk off motion with my right hand. As in
“I’m an administrative assistant” all the while my hand’s going up and down in
the appropriate motion. It seems to be appropriate. (By the way,
I’ve found that almost anything you say is funny if you make a hand job motion
while doing it. Example: if you meet someone new, while shaking
their hand you can say “It’s good to meet you!” while making a jerk off motion
with your other hand. It keeps things loose and hey, good or bad, at
least they’ll remember
you.)
You know that your job sucks when you start having conversations like this:
“Hey! Haven’t seen you for awhile!”
“Yeah, yeah, well, that’s what happens when you get out of high school and
leave town and change your name and stop giving a shit about your past life.”
People don’t really listen anyway. People pretty much see and hear what
they want to see and hear from you.
“You look great! So…what are you doing now?”
“Oh, not much. I’m an administrative assistant for a company downtown.”
“Administrative assistant?”
“Yeah, you know…like a secretary?”
“Oh…” and there is a minute or two of uncomfortable pause as this person I may
have known back in college, or (god forbid) high school looks at me with and
odd mix of pity and confusion and recovers to say, “Well , that’s’
okay!” Words that I never quite get.
“I never said that it wasn’t.”
The point is, I don’t
give a shit. It’s okay with me, one job is as good as the next. Or
I have this one:
“Oh Audrey, how are you?”
“Great, great.”
“So how’ve you been?”
“Fantastic. Absolutely smashing.”
“What are you doing these days?”
“Little of this, little of that.”
“What kind of work you into?”
“Oh, the best. It’s all good work, right?”
“Oh. Yes, that’s true.”
And then when they run out of ways to ask the same question because I don’t
really feel like talking about it, they make up a reason to move on. Hey,
at least that way I don’t have to respond to a lot of unwanted dinner or
social obligations.
Or I get the…
“So…any kids?”
And I usually respond with, “Naaah, I hate kids. Ugly little fuckers. Take
up time and space in your house. I think abortion should be mandatory.”
And that usually does the trick of staying off the important parties which I
would never go to in the first place.
After my five-year
reunion from high school I swore I would never put myself in that situation
again. At that particular debacle, one for which I actually made the
mistake of traveling three hours for, even putting up $200 for two nights in a
Motel 6 during peak season rates and making my poor car chug all that distance
with a wonky clutch, I got so drunk and spent most of the time crying to
people that I hated in high school, then ended up getting “concerned phone
calls” for weeks afterward when I was the subject of a “suicide watch.”
Never
again.
I know…it might seem surprising that someone like me, once the wife of a larger
than life figure as the famous Franklin T…excuse me, “Frankie” Robbins would be
the possessor of such a shitty attitude and was still running to work rather
than parking in a garage and taking the elevator like a normal person, or for
that matter living in a condo downtown rather than in a house with roommates
(at your age? You say.) Well, it’s a long story...
Chapter 2...
Author’s note: this is
a period piece, the events take place in the late 2000s and I have changed a
few things. But what you are about to read is pretty much the same as when I
first wrote it back in 2009. You are the first people to have read it. It took
me that long to get over myself and put this out into the world. I hope you
enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Part 1. Chapter 1: Audrey Robbins. “Be the best you that you can be the best at.” I am on time for work, I say to myself. I am walking in to work early, I am having a great day…. My name is Audrey Robbins. My ex-husband, just to make it clear from the start, is world famous self-help and self-improvement guru Franklin T. Robbins. I used to know him as “Frank,” but when he got on this kick of “helping “people he chose to go by the more familiar and “friendly” sounding “Frankie.” So, if anyone wants to know, I am the former wife of “Frankie” Robbins, and no, I haven’t made a dime off that.
The important thing to know is that at times like this, when I am running late or things are going crappy, I have him in my head, and frankly it really pisses me off. Unlike him, I don’t look at the world as “a rose to be plucked for its beauty.” I don’t try to “maintain a cheerful attitude at all times,” I don’t have “eternal Faith” in myself. Most of the time I don’t even bother to smile. I’m just trying to live my life, such as it is these days. I can’t help it if our years together and his words still stay with me.
I was walking to work on this day, and as I said, it was at these times when I could not get his voice out of my head. But really, at this point anyone living in America at any one time could have the positive affirmations of Frankie Robbins going through his or her head. It was unavoidable, or at least it felt that way.
Keep walking, keep walking, you’re gonna make it on time. My job is a mere…15 and a half minute walk from my house on the west side…that is, it’s that long when I get out, don’t get stopped by my chatty neighbor (he’s really a sweet old man, and I just can’t avoid him or be mean to him) by Mike the panhandler (some days I help him, other days I don’t) or that fucking god-awful long traffic light on Franklin, which is a 6 lane city street that separates the downtown from where I live on the West side. I’ll get to that later, where I live and why. For now, though, I was running late, trying to convince myself that I wouldn’t be. The truth was…it probably was going to be one of those days.
As I crossed over Franklin after the light from hell (4 minutes!) I broke into one of those shuffle/ runs to get into the homestretch of the entrance to work.
It’s only 9:04...but I hated being late for all the questions it inevitably raised from the other people I worked with…”what’s wrong, Audrey?” “why are you sweating?” and my personal favorite “Are you okay?”
Fuck…just leave me alone. I am an administrative assistant. For whatever reason when I tell people who I am and what I do I make a jerk off motion with my right hand. As in “I’m an administrative assistant” all the while my hand’s going up and down in the appropriate motion. It seems to be appropriate. (By the way, I’ve found that almost anything you say is funny if you make a hand job motion while doing it. Example: if you meet someone new, while shaking their hand you can say “It’s good to meet you!” while making a jerk off motion with your other hand. It keeps things loose and hey, good or bad, at least they’ll remember you.) You know that your job sucks when you start having conversations like this: “Hey! Haven’t seen you for awhile!” “Yeah, yeah, well, that’s what happens when you get out of high school and leave town and change your name and stop giving a shit about your past life.” People don’t really listen anyway. People pretty much see and hear what they want to see and hear from you. “You look great! So…what are you doing now?” “Oh, not much. I’m an administrative assistant for a company downtown.” “Administrative assistant?” “Yeah, you know…like a secretary?” “Oh…” and there is a minute or two of uncomfortable pause as this person I may have known back in college, or (god forbid) high school looks at me with and odd mix of pity and confusion and recovers to say, “Well , that’s’ okay!” Words that I never quite get. “I never said that it wasn’t.”
The point is, I don’t give a shit. It’s okay with me, one job is as good as the next. Or I have this one: “Oh Audrey, how are you?” “Great, great.” “So how’ve you been?” “Fantastic. Absolutely smashing.” “What are you doing these days?” “Little of this, little of that.” “What kind of work you into?” “Oh, the best. It’s all good work, right?” “Oh. Yes, that’s true.” And then when they run out of ways to ask the same question because I don’t really feel like talking about it, they make up a reason to move on. Hey, at least that way I don’t have to respond to a lot of unwanted dinner or social obligations. Or I get the…
“So…any kids?”
And I usually respond with, “Naaah, I hate kids. Ugly little fuckers. Take up time and space in your house. I think abortion should be mandatory.” And that usually does the trick of staying off the important parties which I would never go to in the first place.
After my five-year reunion from high school I swore I would never put myself in that situation again. At that particular debacle, one for which I actually made the mistake of traveling three hours for, even putting up $200 for two nights in a Motel 6 during peak season rates and making my poor car chug all that distance with a wonky clutch, I got so drunk and spent most of the time crying to people that I hated in high school, then ended up getting “concerned phone calls” for weeks afterward when I was the subject of a “suicide watch.”
Never again. I know…it might seem surprising that someone like me, once the wife of a larger than life figure as the famous Franklin T…excuse me, “Frankie” Robbins would be the possessor of such a shitty attitude and was still running to work rather than parking in a garage and taking the elevator like a normal person, or for that matter living in a condo downtown rather than in a house with roommates (at your age? You say.) Well, it’s a long story...
Chapter 2...