By Stuart Watson
Fame is like the truck that kills you: You never see it coming. Then, suddenly, it’s all over you. Before long, you’re wishing it was a truck. Jesus, this fucking fame.
Lucky me, I’m infamous for how well I’ve avoided it. Everything I do fails to achieve celebrity. So far, I’ve been entirely successful at embracing obscurity.
One day, a knock at the door. It’s a guy with a camera. He wants to ask me questions about technique, poise, resolve.
How does it feel to excel at anonymity?
He says I’m the only one who has ever actively eluded the spotlight, courted the shadows. He says word has traveled the globe. I’m famous, he says, for not being famous.
After he leaves, exhaustion sweeps over me like a wave. It’s mid-afternoon. I crawl into bed for a nap. Fame has hit me hard, full speed, big weight. Like a truck.
Stuart Watson wrote for newspapers in Anchorage, Seattle and Portland. For fun and low pay, he and his wife later owned two restaurants. His writing is in more than thirty publications, including Yolk, Barzakh, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Bending Genres, Flash Boulevard, Revolution John, Montana Mouthful, Sledgehammer Lit, Five South and Pulp Modern Flash. He lives in Oregon, with his wife and their amazing dog.