Regular Dan (& the Concept of Truth)

I used to work at an office where there were too many Dans. For the most part, they were spread around different teams and went by different variants, so we’d only really notice when someone would call out lunch orders by name.

“Dan C! Dan P!” They’d pause. There were two Dan Ps.

“Regular Dan!” they’d shout. And Regular Dan would come get his lunch.

This story is about Regular Dan and the concept of truth.

I won’t bother describing Regular Dan because he is Regular Dan and you already know who he is and what he looks like. I will only say that while this is a story about Regular Dan and the concept of truth, it is also a story about Regular Dan and his wife and the concept of truth.

—

Regular Dan and his wife lived in a leafy midwestern suburb. One summer night, they were pushing their infant daughter in a stroller on the sidewalk when a car slowed, pulling alongside them. A kid, a teenager appeared from the open window of the car holding one of those giant water guns that looks like a bazooka.

“Pussy!” He shouted, spraying them with the enormous plastic toy.

The car sped off. Regular Dan was soaked. So was Regular Dan’s wife. Regular Dan’s infant daughter was spared.

Regular Dan’s wife stared at Regular Dan. “What are you going to do about this?” she demanded.

Regular Dan wasn’t sure what to make of the question. Yes, they were wet. No, they weren’t hurt. He looked at his wife, her eyes on fire.

“What do you want me to do?” It was a genuine question.

They looked at each other for a long moment before Regular Dan’s wife blinked. They started walking down the sidewalk again.

After another long moment, Regular Dan’s wife said softly, “Maybe you are a pussy.”

—

Regular Dan told me this story and I thought it exposed a raw moment between two people who were intimately stitched together forever and somehow still very confused by one another. Over the next few weeks, I told and retold this story all over the office. Eventually Regular Dan heard what I was telling people. He confronted me in the kitchen where I was drinking coffee. He accused me of fabricating a large part of the story, which I had indeed been doing.

“Why are you telling people my wife called me a pussy?” He asked me.

“It’s a better story if she says that,” I explained. “It’s a better ending.”

He looked at me, not considering my point.

“Please,” he said slowly, “Stop telling people my wife called me a pussy.”

I said okay all the way out the door.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay okay okay okay.”

—

A couple months later, there was a big company party. I went up to the roof and saw a short woman in a dark dress that I didn’t recognize. She was smoking and I asked her for a cigarette. I discovered she was Regular Dan’s wife.

“Did your husband ever tell you about the story I made up about you two?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was about those kids who shouted pussy at you.”

“That really happened.”

“But I made up extra parts. Did he tell you that I made up extra parts?” It struck me what I was about to tell her and I paused.

Regular Dan’s wife stood in front of me, smiling. “What extra parts?” she asked.

“Well, after the kids drive off, when you ask him what he’s going to do about it—well, the way I told it, was that the moment kind of fizzled and you both went on walking. And then you tell him, ‘Maybe you are a pussy.’”

She blinked. “But I didn’t say that.”

“I know. I just felt like it was a better ending.”

“No, I mean I never asked him what he was going to do about it.”

“But that’s what he told me.” We looked at each other.

This is a story about Regular Dan and his wife and my dawning sense of justice.

—

We found Regular Dan in line for the bar. His dress shirt was untucked and open at the neck. He looked at both of us and then at each of us. And then he looked at me again. I was on a team with Regular Dan’s wife and Regular Dan was on a team by himself. And he knew it.

“She never asked you what you were going to do about it.” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

We explained it to him. “When the kids drove by and sprayed you. And you told me that she stood there dripping wet and asked what you were going to do about it.” I studied his face to see if I was making any sense.

He frowned. “I think I meant she just looked at me with that expectation. Like her eyes asked me.”

I thought that was bullshit. “I think that’s bullshit,” I said. “You were so mad at me for doing the same thing.” I couldn’t tell if I was feigning outrage or whether I was actually getting upset.

“It’s not the same thing,” Regular Dan said.

“It’s basically the same thing,” I said. I was actually getting upset.

“What do you guys want to drink?” It was our turn at the bar. It was the end of the night.

“What do you have left?” Regular Dan’s wife asked.

“White wine and these jell-o shots someone brought as a joke,” the bartender said.

This is a story about Regular Dan and his wife and how we did a bunch of jell-o shots.

—

The party moved to a neighborhood bar and it was the kind of night where all the people who usually go home had stayed out and it was the time of night when everyone else was getting rides home. I felt as if I had the capacity to have one more drink and so I decided to have one more drink. Regular Dan went outside to wait for the car. Regular Dan’s wife sat next to me at the bar. Like magic, the room quieted down as she opened her mouth to speak.

This is a story about Regular Dan’s wife.

—

“She had just been born.” She said. We were facing the bar, but looking at each other in the reflection of the mirror.

“Our daughter. It was one of the first times she was outside. I mean, it must have been. She was so small. And all day I was alone with this small person and I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t. Not really. And Dan would come home and I would get so excited to just talk to someone. But instead of being happy, I’d be angry. Not just a little bit. I'd be very angry. You know when you drop something on your foot and it hurts so bad and the first person to ask if you’re okay, you kind of blame them a little?”

I nodded.

“It was like that. So finally the doctor said okay, that she could go outside and when he got home I was still excited, I was happy to see him, this one time. But those kids ruined it. He’s standing there with that stupid look on his face. Like he was getting ready to forgive me for blaming him for being all wet.”

She finished her drink and signed her tab. “He’s not a bad guy. I should give him a break. I’m sorry I called him a pussy.”

“But I made that part up.”

She turned to face me. “No you didn’t. Not really”

She stood up and hugged me and went out to Regular Dan.

“Do you want to be friends?” I blurted out. What I meant was all of us—me, her, and Regular Dan. I wanted us all to be friends. What I meant was that I wanted us all to watch the big game together and bring snacks and for us to keep it down because their daughter was napping. What I meant was that she was one of the world’s great beauties and I would never be as grown up as her. What it sounded like was a crazy person shouting at her in a bar.

She nodded, confused. Then she walked out the door.

—

A few months later, Regular Dan got poached by a bigger company downtown. And eventually I quit too. I kept thinking I’d run into them but then I moved to California and stopped thinking that.

The next time I was back in town was years later for a funeral. I was in my suit at the grocery store when I saw them. Regular Dan and his wife and their daughter. Regular Dan’s daughter was holding a box of ice cream cones and gesturing to her dad. Regular Dan was getting frustrated. Regular Dan’s wife was looking at them, trying not to laugh. She glanced up at me and I thought I saw something flash in her face. I thought of the night in the bar, her eyes righteously churning. She turned back to her family and stepped in to help her husband, who was losing an argument with a five year old.

—

But that didn’t happen. Because what really happened doesn’t make nearly as good an ending. What really happened is that after the night of the party, I didn’t talk much to Regular Dan. What really happened is that Regular Dan got laid off and I never saw him again. But I did hear from a friend when he got divorced.

“What happened?” I asked my friend. “They were best friends.”

“What do you mean what happened?” she responded. “They hated each other.”

This is a story about Regular Dan and the concept of truth.

Kyle Seibel is 36 years old and lives in Santa Barbara, CA. He works as a copywriter and is a veteran on the US Navy. His work has been featured in Passengers Journal and Parhelion Literary.