My friend Wayne and I were bumming around the park behind my house one day and he found a black, leather glove. We were four at the time and the glove was kid-sized, meaning we could wear it. I immediately developed an obsessive lust for that glove. I had to have it.
It was just one glove, for the left hand, and had signs of wear on it. Nothing special. Wayne kind of liked it and put it on, made a fist, and held up his hand to admire it.
“Let me wear it,” I said.
“It’s mine.”
“I found it.”
“Please,” I said.
He put the glove in his pocket. “What do you want to do next?”
This was back in 1968 and we had a bit of autonomy as four-year olds but not much. I could play in my backyard or in the area of the park directly behind my yard. If I wanted to go anywhere else, I had to ask my mom.
“Let’s play with your glove,” I suggested.
“And do what?”
“Wear it?”
He looked at me like I was crazy, and I was a little bit. I craved that glove.
What triggered my obsession was having seen a worker from the gas company do something to the pipe leading into our house. He had worn gloves as he wielded a wrench and did something.
If I had that black glove, then I could probably fix things around the house and impress my mother. Or so goes the thinking of a stupid four-year old who doesn’t know any better.
Somehow I associated that gas company worker’s gloves with the magical ability to fix things, and so I pestered Wayne for that glove.
Pester is too kind a word. I badgered poor little Wayne, asking him if I could wear it. Finally, he relented.
Then I refused to give it back and asked if I could have it. “I really want it.”
“Why?”
That stumped me. Suddenly, it sounded silly to admit that I thought I could fix things and impress my mother if I wore that glove. Like I didn’t even have any tools, so what was I going to do about turning off the gas line to the stove? I couldn’t unscrew that whatcha-macallit, or dethatch the thinga-majig.
I just knew I had to have that glove. “I really want it.”
We didn’t fight over it, but I sure ruined our play date. Instead of digging a hole, or playing with our cowboys and indians, or even getting out my replica M-16 rifle and the tank that fired cannon balls, I kept asking if I could keep the glove.
Eventually, I wore him down and he left without the glove.
I’m a tool kind of guy
I’ve had similar obsessions with tools my entire life. I don’t think it’s uncommon or even weird. They built entire industries on the desire for a tool that will magically unleash the ability to do something.
Every kid in the world had at least one pair of shoes that they thought would make them run faster. New bikes always promised to open up the world to you, if only you will pedal.
Things like the Nordic Track or Bow Flex promised the ability to get into shape. And there was a time when every mall in America had a Hammond Organ store that promised to turn buyers into musicians.
I kept that glove for a while, but eventually I realized it would change nothing about my life. Actually, who am I kidding? I didn’t realize that. I most likely moved onto my next obsession.
I’m that way with my writing. I’ve used every word processor ever invented. I’m a sucker for productivity tools, planners, and systems. I always think my success is just a tool away.
Nowadays, it’s artificial intelligence that promises the most even as it threatens to destroy the world of creativity.
I don’t worry that any of the artificial intelligence tools will become more creative, or better writers, than humans. I worry that those tools will become just good enough to churn out mediocre stories and that publishers will flood the market.
Like if the only meat available at the deli is bologna, you’ll eat the bologna. Gone will be the Reubens stacked with pastrami, the Club with turkey and bacon, or the Cubano with ham and pork. Soon, bologna with mustard or bologna with ketchup will be your options.
You can survive on bologna sandwiches—I know, because that’s all I had for lunch for twelve straight years—but it’s not fun.
The only hope for writers and other creatives is to reveal our humanity and joy of life in stories that artificial intelligence can’t replicate, no matter how many books they consume and digest into their algorithms.
When Wayne and I Parted Ways
Despite never giving back the glove, Wayne didn’t end our friendship. But he moved 30 miles away after kindergarten. My parents drove me out there once to visit them on their farm-like house in Columbia Station. It was one of those gestures you hope will be repeated, but we never drove out there again.
Ten years later, I met Wayne one more time. It was at a Junior Varsity baseball game when Brooklyn faced off with Columbia Station. We both were surprised to see each other.
As you might expect from two awkward teenagers, we didn’t know what to say to each other. Maybe I was a bit relieved he didn’t ask about the glove.
But in the seventh inning, I came up to bat with the tying run on second base and two outs. I needed to get a hit. Before I stepped into the box, the Columbia Station coach made a pitching change.
My friend Wayne was called to the mound. He had nothing special; just a fresh arm, and his coach told him to throw strikes.
My brother, Allie, was behind the backstop, and offered words of encouragement. I was having a good season, and had hit a home run and a ground-rule double in the game. Basically, I had a hot bat and a chance to be the hero.
Wayne’s first pitch was a high, but I swung at it and missed. “What’re you swinging at?” my brother asked. I spit and took my stance.
Wayne’s second pitch was even higher, up above my shoulders and I swung and missed again. “Wait for your pitch,” my brother said. Of course, I didn’t want to wait. I had a hot bat. I wanted to hit it out of the park, be a hero, show my long-lost friend that my obsession with his black glove had morphed into an uncanny ability to hit baseballs in clutch, high-pressure situations.
Wayne’s third pitch was even higher, up around my eyes. It was basically unhittable, but I swung nonetheless. I’d have been lucky to foul it off. Instead, I missed it completely. Strike three, game over.
We waved to each other as our teams left the field and that was the last time I saw my friend Wayne.
Maybe You’d Like
This picayune I’m working with sci-fi and fantasy authors in a group promo for free books. Take a look and check out the covers, which are always a hoot!
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/QxLL4Oy.
Recommended Reading
I finished The Coworker by Frieda McFadden this week. It’s a crime thriller and Frieda is killing it in terms of sales, with multiple books in the Kindle store top 100. The story has a big twist and kind of wild ending. She certainly hits all the tropes you’d expect in a crime thriller, so if that’s your thing, give it a read and let me know what you think.
Next Picayune
I’ll be pitching some new ideas next time about my various creative projects. Until then, thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune!
All the best,
Mickey