ADRIAN S. POTTER
Identity Theories
1.
My theoretical identity begins with happy hour and ends with hangover hymns. It’s all three-day benders, flayed moments, and dodged responsibilities. A back parking lot overrun with weeds. A rusted sedan that idles until a cop knocks against the window, asking if everything’s all right. Well, it’s not, despite a solemn nod otherwise. But thanks for checking. He stays red-eyed, keyed up, crooning tavern lullabies off-key on dingy dance floors as fate arrives. Every lie sounds like an echo of some other lie uttered previously while the riot in this throat chants for another shot-glass soliloquy. My theoretical identity is nothing if not disjointed. Nothing if not out of sync. He’s always going for one that inevitably becomes just one more. Gin and juice with throwback songs on a jukebox can clog the catch basin of common sense. All his enablers are lip-glossed and looking for trouble. The end of it all can be discovered at the end of a long rope. The end of it all can be found tied into an invisible noose that tightens around his neck, squeezing out excuses until he’s left hanging, constricted by the pressure of the truth.
2.
My theoretical identity starts as another sleepless night, with insomniac gears turning and an approximation of anxiety. My theoretical identity remains awake and inconsolable when folks tell him to relax. He stands atop an overpass to dial loved ones in a frenzy at 8 am. Claim there’s too much rush in rush hour, too much traffic congesting in his mind. Everyone tries convincing him what doesn’t destroy him makes him smarter, but he keeps adjusting the wax wings on his back and attempting hazardous approach angles towards the sun. There are too many vehicles on these roads, all potholed and petulant and a waste of tax dollars. Too many crowded spaces and combustibles. His mental engine cruds up with manic thoughts. Imagine my theoretical identity attempting repair, with a smear of oil across his forehead and a pocketful of loose screws. Envision him holding a match, ready to set everything afire and slow-motion stroll away, with a delayed explosion in the background like a cheesy action flick. Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.
3.
My theoretical identity needs less negative self-talk. Craves less ambiguity around certain things. Requires less chatter from relatives and friends who only appear as phantoms haunting social media feeds. To say life is a party would be a lie, but truthfully it feels like a dinner gathering of its finest assassins. Knives in backs, everyone covertly stabbing each other with sharpened stigmas. My theoretical identity wears psychological camouflage to conceal feelings in plain view, makes a ritual out of silence until unspoken words corrode inside his mouth. Marvels at how the world shifts like a puzzle inside its box every time people let their guard down. Whets halfhearted apologies into spikes that puncture skin if clutched too closely. Everyone keeps regurgitating questionable advice to him as if clichés possess healing powers. My theoretical identity hides clenched fists inside his pockets while flashing a synthetic smile and politely changing the subject, again.
4.
People adore my theoretical identity like he’s the best friend they’ve never had. Ever the perfect wingman, he blindly supports each shitty life choice they make. His nights are full of people-pleasing and silent affirmations, curating the mistakes of his closest colleagues. Raising hell as if it’s his firstborn child and then cleaning up messes afterward. My theoretical identity possesses my father’s temper, so occasionally he obsesses over details, bumps against door jambs, and makes a teakettle sound as anger boils over. Sleight of hand over hand, simple minds over matter. The therapist in the strip mall charges too much, spends too much time overanalyzing and not enough listening to obvious clues. Okay, let’s unpack this. When my theoretical identity ultimately loses it, people’s eyes turn wide like scared deer. They feign astonishment, pretend to be shocked by the carnage of emotional arson. Everyone whistles their guilt away while hiding gas cans and Zippos behind their backs.
5.
My theoretical identity always mentions hope as if it’s real, deliberately and with a scintilla of optimism. Like it’s not some convoluted concept crafted from imaginary rainbows and idealistic dreams. Fashioned from vellum paper, thin and easy to tear. By now all his interior voices have transformed into outside actions. All his outside actions now held against him like a pistol pressed to his temple. He fears falling apart mostly because he fears he’ll never get put back together. He fears getting put back together because it feels like falling apart over and over again. My theoretical identity loves the redemption arc. The badass turned good guy narrative. Loves my insides for what’s actually inside, not the make-believe, made-for-tv version. My theoretical identity always mentions hope like he’s tethered to it, naïve enough to remain enslaved by the world’s most convincing lie.
6.
My theoretical identity code switches in staff meetings and during conference calls. Dons a sensible sportcoat and a faux grin. Waltzes past company protocol while doing a tokenized two-step. He tiptoes through the pitfalls of corporate culture, noticing broken clocks but pretending they display the proper time. He was complaining in a manner HR would find cringeworthy when he claimed that he’d never get promoted, yet he kept reluctantly laughing at his supervisor’s lame jokes until his wires got permanently crossed. My theoretical identity calls this charade professional development. SMART goals from another biased performance review. Miscategorized as the angry black guy in the office leaves him like the break room coffee pot after noon – emptied, with no one eager to refill him. He’s been stockpiling supplies and postponed dreams in his cubicle. My theoretical identity knows if you sell out, you can never buy yourself back. All he needs is just one more reason to say no, to vamoose, to eighty-six this sideshow in the name of diversity.
7.
My theoretical identity finds comfort in the misery of others. He never anchors his tongue or meters his candor, says incendiary words doused with accelerant. Recognize the pulled pins of his comments as live grenades. In the abandoned warehouse, all of the machines are chained to the floor and he has the strangest form of fevered sleep, like hundreds of nightmares haunting his psyche. Don’t feed the monster. Don’t feed the panic. The rusted shovel of his voice keeps digging for answers. He knows honesty can be its own form of punishment. He knows doubt can be the murderer of all dreams, secretly smothering them in their bassinet while they’re still in their infancy. It is the worst sort of origin story, but the best sort of snuff film. My theoretical identity is a one-man renaissance blooming in these new-age dark ages. My theoretical identity loves asking questions when he knows solutions don’t exist.
8.
My theoretical identity seems paranoid, but only because he recognizes the subtle difference between caution and fear. Mostly, he remains troubled by shaky bridges and faulty ball bearings. Obsessed with inconsistent narratives and broken-down machinery. He keeps losing track of what he should be nervous about today as he sifts through propaganda on the internet or watches the nightly news. His nervousness is a ghost that moves between rooms and knocks knick-knacks off the tables. My theoretical identity preaches the gospel of insurance policies and backup plans as if they matter anymore, but really he’s saying please help with his eyes. With his suspicious mind. He’s a little amazed when he wanders into hell. And even more amazed when he walks out without a scratch.
9.
When my theoretical identity was born, he was wearing a hoodie and walking through a gated community. All reviled and racially profiled. He carried a bag of Skittles and a cell phone in his pocket, but his unarmed presence still aroused suspicion. My theoretical identity was just starting to see the hazards of existence when a neighborhood watchman gripped a pistol and gave chase. Claimed he fit a description, presumed guilt in the wake of innocence. Here is the suspect. Here is the gun. Amongst the townhomes, he visited relatives while black, a crime punishable by death by firing squad, evidently. The system drew a perfect circle in the street and stood its ground. Went all confrontation and confusion as a gun goes off. Here is the villain. Here is the victim. There goes another, slain by the familiar sham of self-defense, Second Amendment rights, and stereotypes. By doing nothing, my theoretical identity starts everything. Over and over again, death hardcoded to repeat like an infinite loop in society’s flawed algorithm. The world waits uneasily for the next breaking news story, hashtag, protest, and acquittal. My theoretical identity already knows the endless cycle. Already knows black folks like him can lose their life for no good reason. Already knows black folks like him can lose.
10.
All in all, my theoretical identity needs more controversy since controversy sells. More amorous intentions and regrettable dates. He arranges disorder in a tight circle. Plagiarizes urban folklore but fails to verify any facts. All press is good press, he guesses. My theoretical identity gets torn down by the infrastructure of gossip, then rebuilt like a legend. Like all mythology, his life story confronts the queasy and uneasy until it drowns in the undercurrent of reality. Oscillates between chaos and clarity. He wears a façade, but it’s a façade over another façade tucked behind a veneer of open-ended questions. An outline of a face over the faces he used to show. My theoretical identity lacks common sense, but for what he lacks in judgment, he makes up for with his go-forth-and-fucking-do-it-all spirit. Call it testosterone. Call it adrenalin. My theoretical identity daydreams about death as much as he lives his life. Like a B-list celebrity, he’ll be half gone before you even know he’s here.
11.
My theoretical identity scatters beer bottles and complaints across the front porch. Becomes all catastrophe and conspiracy theories when the power goes out. His credit is all jacked up, with past-due bills stacked like a paper tower atop the kitchen counter. He was drowning in debt from the beginning, but for what he lacks in money, he makes up for with slick vernacular. My theoretical identity puts his hand out to acquaintances like a street corner panhandler, his lies as warm and soft as butter in the dish. By the time you read this, you’ll probably sniff out his intentions. My theoretical identity is nothing if not cunning. Though he knows how to survive without sacrificing his dreams, he still gets caught in the think of thin things. Ever the imperfect messenger, his confidence game becomes a tightrope walker – one misstep and balance becomes urgent and irrelevant all at once. He is nothing if not ready.
12.
Sometimes he goes off-grid, offhanded. Specializes in adaptation, manipulation. My theoretical identity fights like a sonofabitch, but it’s the truce you need to watch out for, lined with intimidation and doubletalk. He takes only what he needs. An ochre paged journal with a fake leather cover. A toothbrush. A skeleton key. He can hide so many things in his mouth by now, it’s ridiculous: apologies, pain killers, batteries, the truth. He takes only what he needs but eventually he needs everything. Razor blades, cheap beer, pocketknives. My theoretical identity monitors the eyes of the clerk while he shoplifts redemption from a bodega. He has bruises on his arms from some back alley, backyard, or back of the barroom violence. Everywhere he goes, he keeps collecting sins. Keeps them quartered and folded like stolen maps stashed in his backpack.
13.
Fear puts my theoretical identity inside the trunk, then takes him out. Covers his eyes, then smothers him with chloroform. If he irritates it enough, fear will kill him with indifference. Like a carnival goldfish from a water-filled baggie. Or a pet store hamster in a filthy cage. Neglected to the point of numbness. Loved to the point of death. At the bus stop, my theoretical identity waited for a ride that never showed. Now as fear’s hostage, his joints ache with panic, his tongue rusts with disuse. How he refuses the candies offered as loyalty bribes, leaves them to melt in their metallic wrappers. Crawls into a closet for the night and never crawls out. His fingers fumbling over the deadbolts inside his mind.
14.
My theoretical identity is a strip club next to a rundown hotel, a disaster foreshadowing another disaster. A sign blinking its neon indifference – open all night, open all night. He waits on the chaise lounge by a dusty pool table, flirting with counterfeit sweethearts, confusing carnal things with comfort and sullying his reputation. He gets snared in the honeytrap trying to snatch the bait, but it’s all symptoms of a hollowness that he aches to fill, his origami soul that’s been folded intricately until it looks like something else altogether. Up-down, up-down, listening intently for a moan that sounds more like love than longing. My theoretical identity becomes a window overlooking the allure of the wrong side of town. His eyes blink their neon indifference – open all night, open all night.
15.
It’s so American of my theoretical identity to blame his parents for his shortcomings. To blame his teeth for their decay. He empties his mouth like a toy box of secrets. Everything there, and then nothing. Drained of substance and nostalgia. It’s so passive-aggressive of him to make a game of it. So Midwestern. My theoretical identity inherited these tendencies as a tweenager, along with his obscene fascination with equations and the paranormal. He says luck is always heading towards him, or worse, running away. Inside the house, he lays out his mementos. Tosses action figures into the fireplace like a budding pyromaniac. Oversleeps and cuts his forearms daily. There’s a photo on the mantle of my theoretical identity sitting in the center of a backyard birthday party, with a silly hat perched atop his head and a middle school scowl on his face. Tension ready to be sliced and served like buttercream cake.
16.
Before long, my theoretical identity is brazen enough to build a shadow kingdom out of dubious promises and cynical banter. He’s still charming. Still playing straight man to the world’s degrading comedy routine. Still burning evidence, questioning everything, and flipping coins to make critical life decisions. My theoretical identity is trying to figure out if wearing the crown is worth the criticism, trying to resist the malcontent recipe that’s been baked into his soul. He remembers the astonishment of the county fair psychic who examined his palms and backed slowly away. In the corner bar, my theoretical identity paces quietly by the jukebox until it’s time to head home. Masters parlor tricks, shaking table legs at appropriate moments and throwing his voice. Melancholy grows and swells within him until he falls apart. Sometimes my theoretical identity does drunken singalongs with the closing time crowd like Sweet Caroline, with lyrics so familiar they feel foreign. Sometimes the words so good lodge themselves like hard candy in his throat.
“Identity Theories” absolutely buzzes with life. The words jump off the page, rhythmic, inventive and wryly knowing, stitching together a multi-faceted character who I won’t soon forget. The story is both blade sharp and softly tender, unafraid to ask what it takes to survive in this world while wearing multiple selves.
— Elaine Hsieh Chou, 2022 Prose Contest Judge
Adrian S. Potter writes poetry and prose in Minnesota. He is the author of the poetry collection Everything Wrong Feels Right (Portage Press) and a forthcoming book from Stillhouse Press. Some past or forthcoming publication credits include North American Review, Obsidian, The Comstock Review, and Kansas City Voices. Visit him online at https://adrianspotter.com/.