I remember a conversation I had with Imaginary Keith one day. He couldn’t have been a day over thirty at the time, thirty one tops, and we were discussing the differences between men and women. It wasn’t one of our higher education moments, but more of a “would you rather” moment. Neither one of us knew what we were talking about, and in the end, that conversation always boiled down to the same, one question.
“So, Imaginary Keith, would you rather be a woman or a man?”
“Oh come on, that’s a no-brainer. Give me something hard.”
Something harder then deciding whether to be a woman or a man, I thought. What could be harder then that? It seemed like the ultimate impossible choice.
“Okay then. Would you rather be a woman or a two-inch tall man?” Our conversations always went the same, the only difference really being in who did the asking and who did the answering. Truth is, I always preferred being the asker. Answers are hard; questions are easy.
And as long as we’re worrying about the truth, I might as well admit that I can’t actually remember what Imaginary Keith’s answer was that day. As a matter of fact, I can’t even remember if he ever did answer. I remember the two of us, sitting somewhere in the sun, sweating but too lazy to move. I remember both of us starting to smirk, then smile, and finally laughing out loud.
A two-inch tall man. Can you imagine such a thing? I think it’s perfect.
Friday night there was a message on the answering machine. No hello, no goodbye, just one long continuous sentence. One big breath of words.
“Is a woman lying in front of a motorcycle good photography or just more bullshit, or is it about the lines and curves of the bike or the lines and curves of the woman, or is it just all about our taste for opposites, like we’re supposed to believe the idea that the motorcycle is raw power, waiting for release, and the woman is just softness and innocence and vulnerability? Are we supposed to believe that? Has one single goddamned photographer ever even met a woman? What the . . . “
And that was it. No second call. No second message. The Caller ID said Unknown, although I knew perfectly well who it was. I just didn’t know where.
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I’ve started making a list of all the questions that Imaginary Keith never answered. I’m thinking that there has to be some logical reason that my friend has disappeared. Hidden amongst the thousands of unanswered questions must be something tangible that would explain everything, so this morning, bright and early, I started making my list. It’s called, Questions Friends Never Answer. It’s a working title, so cut me some slack. At first, I’d written down Where The Fuck Are You?, but knew right away it was too emotional. I’d never get anywhere like that. Like I’ve always said, never start a day with an emotional, hysterical rant. It’s not really a philosophy, just common sense. Like avoiding warm mayonaise.
I had to have a different approach. If I was going to be able to think of everything, come up with all of the right questions, and track down Imaginary Keith, I was going to have to turn over a few stones. If Imaginary Keith was hiding under a rock, and I was going to find him, I would need something new. I would have to think differently. I would need to get outside of myself. Somehow, I would have to go places mentally that I’d never been before. I would need to find some uncharted territory.
And then it hit me. What would a two-inch tall man do? How would he get to the bottom of this? That’s when I scratched out that first burst of emotion and wrote the new working title. Let’s face it, a two-inch tall man would need to know what his friends were thinking. A two-inch tall man would need some help. He would ask a lot of questions and would know how to not beat around the bush. If you were a two-inch tall man, I imagine you would need some answers.
