Flugaman—the L is silent

“Why are you standing in the rain?” asked the cop.

“Because I’m a character in a writing prompt contest, and it's required," said the bony man. “I didn’t exist five minutes ago, and after folks read this, I won’t exist again. But let me ask you a question—Officer Flugalman—is it?”

“No, it’s Flugaman—the L is silent.”

“Well, that sounds like unnecessary exposition if you ask me. But at any rate, what are you doing in my story?”

“What am I doing in your story? What makes you think this is your story? I’m a cop, doing my job, patrolling the streets. Maybe this is my story.”

“Your story? I don’t think so, Flugalman."

"Why not, Bony man?"

"You wanna know why not? Because I’ll bet you don’t even have a first name.”

“Of course I have a first name, you arrogant nit.”

“Yeah, what is it?"

“It’s… Fred.”

“Fred? Fred Flugalman? That’s what you came up with? Officer Fred Flugalman?”

“I didn’t come up with it, he did."

“Who?”

“The writer.”

“Oh, now you’ve gone and done it, Flugalman. You just broke the fourth wall. But I’ll bet you don’t even know what the fourth wall is, do you, Flugalman?"

After a pause…

“Is it the wall that comes right after the third wall?”

“Flugalman, you can't use that. It's an awful joke. Every editor in the world just groaned and reached for a red pen.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re so smart, Mister Bony Man, what does my bad joke have to do with breaking the fourth wall?”

“Why do you keep calling me Bony man?”

“I’ll get to that as soon as you answer my question."

“Okay, the thing of it is, Flugalman, you blamed the writer."

"So, what?"

"So, you can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because you just ripped the reader right out of the story. Now you’ve got her thinking maybe this isn’t a story at all—there's no rain, and there's no me, standing out in the rain, and there's no cop. You killed all that. And what's worse, Flugalman, instead of empathy, now you've got her looking at her watch, maybe wondering what’s for lunch, or maybe regretting what she already had for lunch and why she overpaid. In any case, she's no longer interested in where this is going.”

“You know what I think, Bony man? I think you’re obsessed with interjecting conflict.”

"I think you mean injecting conflict, Flugalman."

"Would you please stop correcting me, Bony man?"

“Would you please stop calling me Bony Man, Flugalman?”

“See, there you go again, interjecting. So, I'll reiterate, Bony Man, what are you doing, standing out in the middle of a rainstorm, on 5th Avenue, in New York, on a cold Wednesday morning, on October 15th?"

“Flugalman, that is some of the worst expository and on-the-nose dialogue ever before witnessed in the history of post-renaissance English-speaking prose."

"It was just an innocent question."

"No, it wasn't innocent. It was obtrusive. Do you really think they care that it’s a cold Wednesday morning on October 15th, and that we’re standing out here in the middle of a rainstorm, on 5th avenue, in New York City? On top of that, now you’ve got me repeating all of your non-relevant lines.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

“Oh, now that might work—a cop with a conscience. But why didn’t you say so in the first place? See, you’ve just added a dimension to your beat-cop, standing-out-in-the-rain, cliched personality. Do you have a wife and kids, Fred?”

“Did you just call me Fred?”

“Answer the question.”

“Do you want me to have a wife and kids, Bony man?”

“It’s not what I want, Fred. It’s what he wants. But yes, I wish you had a wife and kids.”

“Now that’s funny, because my wife’s name is Louise. We have a ten-year-old boy named Anthony, and a four-year-old girl named Sarah.”

“That’s nice, Fred. But I have to tell you, I hate the name, Louise. I dated a Louise once, and she dropped me because I liked Italian food. She was weird that way. I think it was more about the spaghetti than the meatballs. Anyway, you can stop calling me Bony man, because I, too, have a name.”

"This late in the story?"

"Yes."

“Well, what is it?"

“It’s… Ignatius. Ignatius MacElroy.”

“Sounds like some weird little, high-school-aged, bow-tie-wearing, Scottish grocery clerk. Attention, MacElroy. Clean up on aisle seven, and bring your wee little broom, Laddie.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot better than Fred Flugalman. By the way, I looked it up. Did you know Flugalman means wingman in German?”

“I told you, it’s Flugaman—the L is silent. Why is that hard for you?”

“Fred, how many words have we written so far?”

“What? I don't know, maybe seven hundred-something. Why does that matter?”

“Because it’s a short story, and I’m shooting for a thousand, and I just realized: It’s me, Ignatius MacElroy, standing here in a rainstorm, on a cold Wednesday morning, on Fifth Avenue, in New York City, on October 15th of some undisclosed year, and well—this is a long sentence—but you’re Fred Flugalman, with a silent L, and you’re a cop with a wife and a couple of kids, and you originally asked me why I’m standing out here in the rain, and so far, that’s all the story is about.”

“I think that is a good use of summary.”

“Yes, but Fred, a story needs to have heart. This story needs to have heart. We need to make people care. They want to see growth, they want to see some change, and one of us, maybe both of us, needs to learn a life-changing lesson that will send folks out into the world wanting to be better people.”

“Ignatius, I think that’s a load of horse pucky.”

“Horse pucky? Did you always feel that way?”

“What do you mean by always?”

“What I mean, Fred, what I’m asking, is that when you first walked up to me, before you told me about your wife and your kids, did you always believe that people or characters needing to change in a story was a load of horse pucky?”

“That's an extremely wordy question, Ignatius, but no, I think I just came up with that."

"Wait, did you just call me Ignatius?"

"It was the second time, but yes, I did."

“Well, then, see, there’s still hope for you, Fred.”

“What do you mean?"

“You can change, Fred. You can still be the good cop, with a wife named Louise—whose name I loathe—a son named Anthony, and a little girl named Sarah, all of whom probably love you very much. You can leave me alone and walk away in the rain this morning, go home tonight, hug your wife and kids, and tell them—Guys, I met this really weird guy named Ignatius MacElroy this morning. I think he was Scottish. Anyhow, it was cold, and he was just standing out there, in the rain, on Fifth Avenue. And where he came from, or where he was headed? I had no idea.

But it didn't matter.

He told me his story.

He let me play a part in it.

He made me a better person, because of it.”