Fabrication, Conversation

I once fabricated a screenwriting assignment in college. As instructed by our professor, we were to publicly eavesdrop on a conversation and use what we had heard to write a short scene. It was purposed to familiarize us with realistic, everyday dialogue. During class, at the gym, on the bus, doesn’t matter, he said. Just listen and write down what you hear, he said.

Afterwards, though, I couldn’t help but grieve. Is it possible to miss something you’ve never known? I mean, sure, I could’ve really tapped into my lip reading, but no way I’d be able to clock a full-blown conversation. Especially with people I’ve never met.

The logical move would’ve been to inform my professor the impossibility of the assignment. But I was nineteen, so I sulked instead. I considered recruiting a friend, but it was the principle that stopped me from calling anybody up. I shouldn’t have to badger a friend to listen to a random conversation, have them write it down, review it, edit it for clarity, blah, blah, blah.

So I made it up, with slight inspiration. The premise? A couple breaks up at an IHOP. Painfully cliché? Yes. Plausible? Sure. I got a B, so I guess my professor somewhat bought it. Probably a pity grade. It was pretty rough stuff.

In essence, the assignment forced a perpetual reminder that it’d be nice to just hop on a train and sit next to a man who’s gabbing on the phone about a “huge ass” pimple on his back that his neighbor refuses to pop. Maybe the two young girls across from me are singing a song I wouldn’t recognize.

I think I’d look forward to standing in line somewhere. I could learn about a woman’s weekly Bunco game and her hope for Jennifer’s absence; I could learn the difficulty of various “Would You Rather?” questions.

Sometimes I dream of sitting in a bar, listening to conversations about why The Notebook sucks; about how difficult it is to cook a turkey; about whose con story is worse and why Halloween decorations are superior to Christmas decorations.

Maybe one morning I’d find myself on the bus, eavesdropping on a conversation about Jake Gyllenhaal’s ass. That’d be cool, you know?