This came to me last night, and I really want to explore it.

[gridlore]

I found myself picturing a "gray man" dying at his desk and following his journey through the Buddhist bardos to discover who he really was before being able to move on. Not an angry man, or a particularly lonely man, but just one of those people who just seem to exist and then go away. So, here's Chapter 0:


Meet Mr. Phelps

Mr. Phelps was a gray man. He had worked at the same San Francisco shipping company in accounting for over thirty years; the physical location of his desk not moving overly much in the march from office bullpen to cubicle farm to open workplace. He often told new hires that he dated back to ten-key adding machines and hand-written ledgers. When they would ask if those were the good old days, Mr. Phelps would laugh and say that these were the good old days, that every day would be the good old days sometime down the road.

He lived in a one bedroom condominium in the South of Market area. It had been an apartment when he moved in, but when the development was sold, Mr. Phelps decided that it was a sound investment and took the plunge. He had never owned a car, or even learned to drive. Mr. Phelps had never married, though he had come close to proposing once or twice. Twice a year, in April and October, he would buy a new suit and whatever other clothing he needed. His older clothes he donated to charities.

It was quite possible to work with Mr. Phelps for years and not learn his first name. Even his superiors called him Mr. Phelps, as did the nice Chinese lady at the corner grocery and the man at the dry cleaners. The only time that everyone knew his name was during the 2008 Olympics, when an American swimmer who happened to share Mr. Phelps' name swept the competition, "No, " he'd laugh when teased about his twin in Beijing, "I'm not him, but I do a ferocious dog-paddle!" As a matter of fact, Mr. Phelps couldn't swim a stroke.

The only true passion in Mr. Phelps' life was baseball, and the Giants in particular. He had held season tickets since 1975 (Section 125, Row 12, Seat 8 at AT&T Park, quite an improvement over his seats at Candlestick) and was often recognized for his vest covered in commemorative pins. The people who sat around him at the park thought of him as "that nice older man." On his desk at work sat a baseball autographed by Giants' great Bobby Bonds. Mr. Phelps had wanted to get Barry Bonds to sign the ball as well, but never got the chance.

His coworkers, when they thought of him, described him as friendly, helpful, dedicated, and looking a bit like Larry King. But they didn't think of him often. Mr. Phelps simply was, an institution, as much a part of the office furniture as the fake rhododendron in the lobby. He did good, but not great work, took his vacations, and was always ready to listen. Each morning at 5:30AM he'd get up, shower, dress, buy a Chronicle from the corner grocery and take the 15 minute walk to his office, rain or shine. This routine, with little variation, had been followed for decades.

So goes the story of a gray man, passing through life. Not affecting anyone or anything in any great measure, but simply existing. Until 11:48AM on Tuesday, March 18, 2008, as his finished up annotating a spreadsheet, with a half-eaten leftover St. Patrick's Day cupcake on his desk, Mr. Phelps abruptly sat rigidly upright. His face drawn in a mask of pain as he frantically clutches for his suddenly burning chest. But before he can reach it Mr. Michael Phelps, aged 64 years and only four months from retirement, slumps and falls out of his chair. Dead from a massive heart attack.

This is where our story begins.

--

Like I said, no idea where this would go, expect to follow the general path of Tibetan Buddhism and the bardos. If I had to sum up the novel in one sentence it would be "You have to know who you are before you can accept that you aren't him." I do know how the book ends. It ends with a birth announcement dated several days after the events recounted above.

For the bulk of the story I'm thinking of doing The Divine Comedy in reverse, and have the spirit guide be the viewpoint character. that would let me leave Phelps as a puzzle, to be slowly unwrapped.

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