Gen Eric: Selected Short Stories of Self-Loathing v.2.0.1

Having finished another jog, Caleb collapsed into his car. The vehicle bounced as his substantial weight fell into the driver’s seat. Waiting for his breathing to return to normal – or, at least, until he stopped gasping for oxygen – Caleb let his mind sift through the various pieces of information it had collected during the week. The tidbit that caught his fancy was an overheard conversation about the ways in which cars reflect the personalities of their drivers. This concept certainly applied to Caleb and his white Toyota sedan. Both were reliable and efficient with fairly nondescript features. One would be hard-pressed to pick either out of a crowd. Neither car nor driver elicited strong opinions from others. There was no love or hate, everyone who knew Caleb or his Camry had the same lukewarm assessment, “Eh, all right, I suppose.”

Unlike Caleb, most of his coworkers were as distinctive and interesting as their rides. Each driver was easily guessed simply by viewing his or her car in the company parking lot. Like those childhood puzzles in which he drew a line from a word in column A to its counterpart in column B, Caleb effortlessly connected owner and car as he imagined the lot and continued to recover from the evening’s run.

The sage green minivan belonged to Belinda, the soccer mom who worked in payroll.
The immaculately waxed and detailed Lexus in cobalt blue was proudly owned by Marcus, the head of HR.
Leroy the ex-military Loss Prevention Specialist drove the dusty Ford F-150 adorned with a chrome-looking ichthus and a yellow, ribbon-shaped magnet that read, “Support Our Troops.”
Chloe, the corporate trainer, drove the new chartreuse VW Bug bearing a Mac bitten-apple logo and several politically aware – if not preachy – bumper stickers.
The rest of the parking area was littered with rugged Jeeps, flashy sports cars, “pimped” Civics, and trendy hybrids. Those vehicles belonged to the host of twenty-somethings in telemarketing. It seemed like they were named Tyler, Taylor, Parker, or McKenzie.

Growing bored with this mental match game, Caleb shook his head and rejoined reality. He suddenly realized that he was breathing normally now and still sitting sideways in the driver’s seat with the door open. He swung his thick legs into the pale sedan and cranked the engine. The GenericMobile, as he called it, roared to life.

Long ago, Caleb jokingly decided that, if he were ever to adopt a superhero identity, his alter ego would have to be GenericMan. With his benign appearance and commonplace features, he was able to disappear faster than a speeding bullet or blend into a crowd in a single moment! GenericMan was the embodiment of all things bland! Of course, his preferred method of transportation was the GenericMobile, which remained undetectable in constant stealth mode.

On the road, Caleb cruised the familiar route from the jogging trail to the grocery store. Eyes glazed over with a thousand-yard stare, he must have driven five or six miles while completely on autopilot. He continued in and out of concentration for the rest of the drive and daydreamed of coworkers, cars, and the non-adventures of GenericMan.

Upon reaching his destination, Caleb carefully noted of where he parked. He had to; otherwise, he would end up traipsing through the entire lot looking for his ride home.
He lumbered towards the grocery store’s entrance, where the glass doors slid open as soon as Caleb was detected by the motion sensors. He shuffled through the entrance, snatched up a basket, and glanced toward the store’s scale. Another customer was already making use of it, so Caleb decided to return once he had finished shopping. Caleb headed to the far right to begin shopping in the produce section. He preferred to travel the aisles meticulously, right to left, up and down. Very mild obsessive-compulsive tendencies prevented Caleb from skipping a single lane. “What if I forgot something? Perhaps I’ll discover an item that didn’t make it to the list,” he argued to rationalize his quirky behavior.

Somewhere around aisle eight, he became vaguely aware of someone calling out behind him. “Matt! Hey, Matt!”
A few seconds later, Caleb felt a hand clamp down on his right shoulder. He glanced around to see whom the hand belonged to.
“Don’t pretend you don’t hear me, Matt,” a stranger said jovially.
“My name is not Matt.”
“Stop screwing around with me, man. Like I don’t know my own cousin,” the stranger continued.
“Seriously, my name’s Caleb.”
Studying Caleb’s face, the stranger realized this might not be his relative. “Oh, man, I’m sorry. My bad! It’s just … you’re a dead ringer for my cousin. It’s uncanny,” the stranger added with a bit of awe in his voice.
Caleb recognized the doubt in the man’s eyes. “Yeah, I get that a lot,” he replied dully.

In fact, he got that all of the time, averaging about once a month. He was constantly mistaken for the nephew, the guy who lives three houses down, or the roommate’s ex-boyfriend. After years of mistaken identity, Caleb eventually drew the conclusion that his looks were truly ordinary and that he resembled every twelfth guy on the street. This conclusion led to the creation of GenericMan.

Caleb’s hair was the color of rich topsoil, not really brown but not quite black. His eyes were a shade of beige that resembled tepid coffee with too much cream. Not that anyone ever gazed into them long enough to determine the color; Caleb was unable to maintain eye contact long enough for others to study them. His pale skin was grayish white with the faintest hint of yellow. His complexion wasn’t sickly, but not quite healthy either.

Everything about him was as though Goldilocks’ baby bear designed him. Everything was just right. His nose was not too pointy or too straight or too long. His eyes weren’t bulging nor were they beady. He was overweight but not obese. He was average height – when he wasn’t hunched over – not too tall and not too short. Most of his wardrobe was size medium. He was completely and utterly unremarkable. Sometimes he wished for something to give his face some character, a beauty mark or manly scar or cute freckles.

Caleb finished strolling the grocery aisles, went to the checkout lane, and paid for his purchases. Here again, his obsessive tendencies surfaced when he grouped his purchases on the checkout stand’s conveyor belt. Caleb insisted on clustering similar items together, the way he wanted them bagged. He also grew quietly annoyed when the bagger disregarded the handy work and opted for his own system of randomly tossing things into bags. Caleb collected the plastic bags and returned to the scale standing in the front of the store. He stared at it intently for a few seconds, pondering whether he should climb aboard. How was the goal coming? Had he lost weight? Was he under 200 yet? How many lives had this fucking scale ruined? “Nah,” he decided. “Not tonight. I can’t do that to myself.”