Fabulous Realities

I live in a small town in the country. The sticks according to city friends. The middle of nowhere according to my eleven-year-old daughter. The town has one blinking red traffic light at a “tricky” intersection. There are two corner stores, no restaurants, and one bar—the Red-Neck Lounge. Last year during American Idol, the Red-Neck Lounge held its own weekly talent competition aptly named Red-Neck Idol. As much as I wanted to see what went on inside, I couldn’t muster the courage to check out Red-Neck Idol. Maybe this year.

As a writer, I am always looking for material. When an opportunity knocks, I want to open the door, pen in hand. I tell my students always to have their radar on for potential material, and I live by that advice. What I am looking for is what Ken MacRorie calls fabulous realities—images and talk and situations that are wholly unexpected and unique, yet there they are, knocking at the door.

I encountered a fabulous reality just the other morning at the garage where I took my 1987 Ford pick-up for its annual inspection (it didn’t pass, but that’s another story). I’d been taking my truck to this garage for the past few years and knew the two mechanics by first name, Scott and Donny. On this particular morning, the tiny office was full of people—Scott and Donny, of course, and two others whom I knew immediately were related to Donny. Donny’s a skinny man in his late thirties with thick, tinted glasses that made the whites of his eyes gray. A little red hair grew on the end of his chin, which he rubbed often. He spoke slow and moved slower, but he was a good mechanic and trustworthy.

Because my truck was in the garage often enough that Donny felt he knew me, he introduced me to the other two in the room. “This is my father, Donny,” he said pointing to the older man, “and this is my son, Donny,” he said, pointing to a teenager. He didn’t smile when he said this, so I knew he wasn’t joking, and he might not have even seen the obvious humor in the situation—Donny, Donny, and Donny.

Scott, the owner of the garage, smiled and said, “Confused yet?”

I laughed and immediately thought of the sitcom The Bob Newhart Show, in which two of Bob’s neighbors are brothers named Daryl and Daryl.

“How do you keep it straight?” I asked Donny. My Donny.

Donny nudged up his glasses and said, “Easy. This is Donny senior. I’m Donny junior, and this is Donny junior junior.

I don’t recall what I ended up having to pay to get my truck repaired, but whatever it was, it surely was worth it. I mean, Donny, Donny, and Donny is one thing, but Donny senior, Donny junior, and Donny junior junior is quite another. I couldn’t make something like that up if I wanted to. Which is why it is a fabulous reality.