Whenever I arrive, it’s the wrong time. No one has to tell me. The right time is a few minutes earlier or later. Invariably I arrive at the wrong time in the wrong place. Wherever I am, it is the wrong place. It’s not where I should be. No one says a word when I arrive. I am always unexpected. Because it’s the wrong place, I want to be someplace else. I always want to be in the place where I should have been. The place where I should have been is paradise on earth. It is inaccessible to me, because I cannot arrive on time at the right place.
 
(I try to be still.)
 
Because wherever I am is not where I should be, I am always ill at ease. I’m in an uncomfortable position. I have conversations with the wrong people. I should not be speaking to them. They know this, but everyone is polite since each of them may be similarly indisposed. They never remark that my presence is a problem to them. They put up with me; I put up with them. I always wonder when I can leave gracefully. I’m never graceful, because I don’t fit in wherever I am.
 
(I try to control myself.)
 
In the wrong place at the wrong time, the wrong people and I are obviously in a drama, a tragedy or comedy. Whatever tragedy I am in, unwittingly and involuntarily, it’s not the right one for me. It's either too grand or pathetic, an exaggeration, considering my position or station, which is an impossible one. A neighboring tragedy, the one next door, would be better for me. But it is unavailable to me. It is doubtless the tragedy I was born to. But my tragedy would not be invigorated by comparison. Just the opposite. The emptiness at its center, with me as the wrong hero, makes it funny. People laugh at my dilemma. In someone else’s tragedy, my dilemma would be acknowledged appropriately.
 
(I try to be unobtrusive.)
 
Whatever comedy I am in, whenever I inadvertently participate, it is being played by overly tragic people. It’s the wrong comedy. I am unsuitably sad. I forget the punchlines and tell jokes badly, with the wrong timing. People cry at my ill-timed jokes. I cry when I should laugh. When I am mistakenly in the audience, at someone else’s tragedy or comedy, my reactions are consistently wrong.
 
(I try to leave.)
 
Whenever I attempt to go, I ask a friend which is the right way. But whoever is my friend is the wrong friend. This is not the person who should be my friend. Even if this person is a friend, he or she may provide the wrong advice. Or this friend may tell me to find the information I need in a book.
 
(I try to be sensible.)
 
Whatever book I find is the wrong book. The right book is on the shelf, in the bookstore or library, next to the wrong one I discover. Once I have it and begin to read it, I know it’s the wrong book. No wrong book will tell me what I need to know, but I keep buying and reading books. I buy the same books again and again. Because I put them away in the wrong place, I forget I already have them.
 
(I try to find myself.)
 
Whenever I flee to a place I think I’ve never been, I discover that I’ve been there before. I hated the place on my first visit, but I’ve repressed the memory of it. I return to hated places often. I have seen many movies again, too. I go twice to places and to see people and movies I should never have visited or seen in the first place.
 
(I try to abstain.)
 
Whenever I see myself in a mirror, I don’t believe the person is me. I believe I’m seeing the wrong person. This person masquerades as me. This person apes me. I try to catch this person unaware by sneaking up to surprise the mirror image. I am always disappointed when the wrong person shows up. The wrong person consistently makes the wrong appearance.
 
(I try not to trust appearances.)
 
Since I am in the wrong place, it must be the wrong mirror. The wrong mirror must not mirror the right image. It can’t be me. But I am disappointed never to see myself. I keep looking. I may simply be the wrong person.
 
(I try not to want to escape. I try not to cry or laugh. I try to remember. I try to act differently.)
 
If I am the wrong person, this must be why, whatever world I am in, there is a better one elsewhere. Whatever money I have, more money is waiting somewhere else. This is why I do not like what I see. It is why I don’t want what I have and why I want what is nearby. Whatever I have is not what I should have. Whatever makes me happy ultimately makes me sad. I am the wrong person living my life. Someone somewhere else must be better off.
 
(I try to fool myself.)
 
Whoever I am, I am wrong. I try not to expect anything. It’s impossible not to expect the wrong things in life. But I can’t expect nothing. Nothing's certain. This may be wrong.
 
(I try not to jump to conclusions.)
 
 
© Lynne Tillman 1996
 
This story appeared previously in Silence Please! Stories after the works of Juan Munoz, and in the collection This is Not It, D.A.P./Distributed Art Publishers Inc. 2002.