You Are Who: An Experiment in Second-Person Narrative, Vol. 4

You are dashing away from the scene of your latest heist, sweater vest full of cash, when you round a corner and crash into something large. Regaining your senses, you discover that something to be a lanky young gentleman wearing the latest in High Street fashion. As he tucks in his rumpled ascot, he slips his business card into your hand. Almost by instinct, your eyes flash down to read it.

BIFFINGTON CRUMPET
Private Investigator to the Stars
(310) 555-3253

“Ha! A private dick! And Crumpet, is it?!?!” you cackle. “What kind of first name is Biffington, anyway? Hah!”

“You may laugh all you want, but you know damn well what kind of name Biffington is, don’t you?” he answers.

Upon reflection, you reply, “Yes, I think Biffington is of Saxon origin. It was used as a term of distinction among certain ancient English fishing villages.”

“That’s better,” Crumpet responds with a warm smile. “Now where were we?”

“I was rounding that corner, trying to get the hell out of here,” you answer.

“Daydreaming about a pretzel you won at auction, I’m sure,” Crumpet accuses.

“And what’s it to ya?”

“I will give you exactly forty U.S. dollars if you tell me about your latest pretzel-based dream,” he enigmatically offers.

Against your better judgment, you tell him about the dream you had last Tuesday, in which you had indeed won a pretzel at auction. But this time, before you could claim it, the manager of the auction house had you escorted from the premises for brandishing your mustard bottle in a menacing fashion.

The mustard bottle floated and danced along the cobblestone road. In and out the flexible plastic sides moved. Back and forth, the bottle hopped about, as if to taunt you with its very un-condiment-like mobility. It waved down a passing ketchup bottle and asked it to chat for a spell.

“How do you spell your name?” asked the mustard bottle.

“K-E-T-C-H-U-P,” answered the ketchup bottle.

“Do you know a guy named Catsup?” asked the mustard.

“Know him? I practically grew up with the guy!”

At that point, you woke in a cold sweat in a damp bed wearing soiled pajamas. “But how could you have known about my pretzel auction fantasias?” you stammer.

“I don’t know what it is about pretzel auctions, but they do seem to beguile the subconscious!” Crumpet titters. You while away the afternoon with Crumpet. Sipping tea and gossiping about his former clients, the two of you become fast friends. In this topsy-turvy, live-for-today, cable-television, electric blender world of ours, isn’t that what’s really important? Having a good friend named Biffington Crumpet?

As night falls, you find yourself in a bit of a quandary as to what to do next. You fall back on one of your favorite pastimes: busting a move. You launch into a frenetic display of mid-80s hip-hop dance moves, showing off your prowess at the Running Man, the robot, the Jerry Lewis and the Fred Gwynne.

That last move catches Crumpet’s eye. “Hey there, are you doing the Fred Gwynne?” he asks.

“Why yes I am,” you gleefully answer. “In fact, I invented it!” With that, you continue your brash high-stepping.

“I know just who you should meet,” declares Crumpet, suddenly texting madly and surprisingly sweatily. Within minutes, a brash young Korean woman calling herself EmCee R3NeG3dE drives up in a dusty Ford Fiesta.

“Can you do an Ol’ Dirty Bastard impression?” Crumpet queries.

This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of! In a flash, you begin crooning off-key a cappella sex ballads in your best Ol’ Dirty voice. Sometimes it can be hard to get the late rap stylist’s warblings just right without the benefit of lots of rum and crack cocaine, but tonight you’re on your game.

The young Korean rapper watches impassively as you rip through a smoldering version of ‘Shimmy Shimmy Ya.’ When you reach the end, she pushes you aside and launches into a note-perfect rendition of Method Man’s ‘Tical.’

The two of you join forces and become Nu Tang, the premier Wu Tang Clan tribute band in the entire San Joaquin Valley. You tour relentlessly, partially selling out shows from Weed to Modesto. Things end up badly for you, though, when you get into a feud with a Redding-based EPMD cover band. Violence begins flaring up at your shows. The low point arrives when cultural influencer and YouTube sensation Lil’ Mini Tiny Jr. blasts your group, saying, “Nu Tang are the worst Wu Tang tribute group I’ve ever seen! I have more Inspectah Deck in my little finger than they do in their combined upper torsos!”

Unflattering cover stories in the Vallejo Daily Worker and LitWhore: The Magazine for Literate Whores ring the death knell on your project. You set aside your days as a Wu Tang copycat and concentrate on polishing up your Justin Timberlake impression. Within twelve years, you’ve gotten pretty good at it.

Related: Volume 1 | Volume 2 | Volume 3