WAG - Who’s the fool now, young man?
Apparently, Vox is talking to me.
A couple weeks ago, I had an old friend from Hatch who worked at Vox magazine who had a whole in an upcoming issue. It seems they couldn’t find anyone to write the postscript, or personal essay section, of the April 1 edition.
Even before she said something I’d been thinking about doing some freelancing (since the campus only has about a half dozen papers for me to submit stuff to). I was particularly intriguing when she said they were looking for people with quirky April Fool’s Day experiences.
I thought, have I got a story for you.
Through class, I mulled a pitch and talked to her afterwards. I told of the foolish high school sophomore who bit of more than he could chew and still suffered from memory loss from the consequences of the day.
She laughed and said she’d pass the story along. If her editors liked it, I was told I’d get an email in the next day or two. Otherwise… you get the idea.
A week and a half passes.
I turn my attention to other projects, tests, and the coming vacation promised by Spring Break. I then get a frantic phone call.
Apparently, the editors like the story, but sent the story request and parameters to the wrong person, or the wrong Caleb to be exact. For two years I was confused with another member of the honors community, Caleb Hudson. For one year, I was stationed two doors down the hallway from him. Many people would knock on my door, which said “Caleb” on it, and would frown upon my seeing my face. This was an often-repeated scene, and I got to the point where I could milk quite a bit of sympathy from the exchange.
Many times, people would knock on my door and go, “You’re not Caleb.”
“Yes I am,” I’d respond with a fake whimper. “I’m just not the Caleb you’re looking for.”
Anyway, when my friend, the former Hatch resident, sent the story order, she emailed the wrong Caleb. Another email informed me of the mix up and gave me pleasure that the other Caleb was mixed up with ME for a change.
So they wanted my story, but I was on a tighter time frame to deliver it. My original deadline would have been the next day, though they were willing to give me more time to work on it. The trouble for them, however, was that I was going to be leaving town early for the Arizona trip.
I knocked out the story as quickly as possible and produced a tale that was twice as long as the original parameters. So I cut out 100 words, another 100 words, and then 400 more for good measure. Yet, I still found myself with 300 more words than was comfortable.
However, I figured I’d given the editors enough to work with… screw it, I’m sending it and going to bed and will worry about it in April.
Spring Break comes and goes.
I come back to find a message on my phone asking me to drop by to edit the story down. I go into the Vox offices and spend about two hours trying to put my story back together after the Vox editors had pruned it down. I’d heard in the past some Vox editors were known for reworking stories to the point they were barely recognizable to the original author, but I was happy to see my story was mostly intact. Changes were slight and I worked to cover the holes created.
I left the Vox office happy and looking forward to seeing my story come out. The next night I was called to think about headlines, which would later constitute the post from earlier in the week, but when the second call came they were only interested in confirming a headline they came up with.
I had one more round of follow up changes and was told there’d be a few tiny tweaks left, since the story still needed to be two lines shorter, but was assured everything would be there on Thursday.
This morning, I checked the story online and was surprised to find some extra things in my story.
It’s a strange case when you find yourself going through your article with a yellow highlighter denoting what is your writing and what flowed from someone else’s pen, but from that I have produced an annotated version.
Comments in bold are not my lines. Blocked comments in italics hint at deleted details.
Postscript
April 1, 2004
“Caleb, tell the story about the time you got hit by a car,” people often plead.
“For the last time, I’m telling you I was flung off a truck!” I respond.
For those who wish to brag about their grandest, most embarrassing stunt pulled, I have them beat. I was inadvertently the executor of my self-inflicted prank ... on April Fools’ Day.
On a regular day during high school track practice, I noticed one of my friends sitting in his truck. Because he was also on the team, it was obvious he was ducking out of practice.
It’s an unwritten rule that you must hassle anyone who leaves early, so I wasn’t surprised when a teammate called out, “Let’s block him and make sure he can’t leave.”
A large crowd tarried in the parking lot, but as my friend drove forward, the roadblock thinned. I was only playing around, but two guys to my right were determined to stand their ground. [I had more information on how they hated each other for so long, they couldn’t remember why]
Behind the wheel, my friend stared down the guys in his path. Focused on his enemies, he resolved not to back down. In a game of chicken in which both sides were determined to win, I was about to lose.
This is where my memory gets sketchy.
I have pieced together what happened from witness accounts and my limited
recollections. I remember jumping onto the truck. I was pressed against the far right side of the hood by the accelerating motion of the vehicle. We were traveling so fast; I knew I needed to grab on to something.
The last thing I can recall, to my own disappointment, isn’t the world circling around me. It would have been a better story if I could say I felt the breeze on my face before I tumbled to the ground. This is something I explained to the editors, but never directly typed] I only remember gently shifting forward, as if I were readjusting myself in a chair.
Then there is nothing but darkness. My friend and I dispute whether I fell or flew off his fender. When asked if he saw anything, my friend said he watched me get up though I suspect he only saw me bounce, [gone is the detail that I have friends describe this ] flopping like a rag doll on the pavement. He drove to McDonald’s without knowing I lay unconscious on the side of the road.
I remember hearing voices, but some time passed until I thought to open my eyes. Two band directors and the assistant track coach hovered over me. They worked to keep the crowd back, for most of the track team had gathered around and advised me to keep still.
I kept wondering how I could keep my overprotective, hypersensitive parents from finding out about my stupidity [Whoa! Mom and Dad, this came TOTALLY out of nowhere] when I heard someone say: “Don’t worry! I called an ambulance.”
Crap, I thought. I wasn’t going to walk away from this one.
The EMTs arrived with a transport board and a neck brace. Upon being loaded in the back, I was disappointed that I couldn’t look around at all the cool gadgets. Instead, my first ride in an ambulance was spent staring at the ceiling because of the brace.
I told every doctor and technician near me that it hurt whenever I moved my neck. I couldn’t help think I was one careless movement away from paralyzing myself. Only after the brace was removed did I find the source of my paranoia and pain.
When I was launched off of my friend’s Dodge, I landed on my back. I know this because the impact with the asphalt burned a hole in my shirt that framed a patch of road rash on my left shoulder blade. The edge of my neck brace hovered just above the friction burn, and it brushed against the bare skin whenever I turned my head.
The test results said my bones were fine; however, I had a concussion. Minor head trauma should have been a relief, [This is just foolishness] but then my parents arrived, thus leading to the second scariest part of my day.
I grew up in a strict but loving family. Nevertheless, I was unprepared for the browbeating that came from the most unexpected source: my mother.
She hit me with several rapid-fire queries. “How DARE you put the family through this!” and “Did you even THINK about the consequences?” The combination of an acute migraine, a cumbersome IV and muscle-freezing terror forced me to bear her emotional onslaught.
Visiting hours finally ended, and on the way out, my mother paused. Gauging from her earlier lashing, I figured she was going to calm her nerves and be sympathetic to my pains. Instead, in an ambiguous voice, filled with both sardonic spite and motherly comfort, she whispered, “Happy April Fools’ Day.”
It took me a second to comprehend the punch line and my mother’s chilling irony. In the wake of life flashing before my eyes, I had completely forgotten it was April 1. It could have even been funny, save the intense pain. [Um… I did find it funny. I was just also shocked at her sarcastic veracity at the same time]
Today I don’t mind telling people about my day as the fool. It’s a great
icebreaker at parties, and I’m often prompted to repeat it. I don’t care if they miss the emotional significance of the day; it’s now meant to make people laugh.
I only wish they’d get the facts straight when they ask me to tell the story again.
“Hey Caleb! Tell the one about that car you ran into during track practice!”
“Sigh … Okay, let’s go over this one more time … ”
— Caleb Michael Smith
I will say I give Vox great credit for letting me list my whole name as my tagline, as I prefer (but only rarely see in print).
One last thing… The subtitle of the story, as it appeared in print (but not in the online version), was “A spur-of-the-moment game of chicken lands one daredevil in the emergency room.” I hope this is the only time I am ever deemed a “daredevil” in print.
At least that’s my goal, Mom.
'April_fooled_me'
