People often wonder where my characters come from, whether they are based on real people, people that I know. Perhaps I cobble together pieces from individual traits and mannerisms of people I've met, but in general, no. Writing something recognizable about someone you know is a dangerous business.
But traits and mannerisms are easily picked up from observing people, from listening to them, from trying to figure out what makes them tick. Or, equally as important to a writer, filling in the details of what might make them tick. Just as the best dialogue comes from listening people talk when they think no one is listening, the best characters come from observing how people interact when they think no one is watching.
If you think about it, the average person interacts with thousands of people in their life, perhaps even tens of thousands. Most of those interactions are short and likely one-time affairs that you may not remember ten minutes after they have passed. Catching up with This American Life over the break, I was reminded that sometimes we encounter an individual we are unlikely to forget. For me, it is usually someone I think of as merely odd or curious, and then find out later there is another layer to the story. Here's an example.
Several years ago, right before we had the roof replaced, I noticed that some of the fascia around the house had started to rot out and needed to be repaired. So I called around to carpenters in the phonebook to get estimates. As most of you who have contracted for work in your house know, the first trick is getting a contractor to answer the phone or return a call, the second trick is getting them to come out to the house. Of the calls I made, only three carpenters answered the phone and said they did the kind of work I was looking for. Only one showed up for his appointment.
The man at the door was about my age, muscular and slightly weathered like he spent a lot of time in the sun, as you might expect of a carpenter in Florida. He was shorter than I was, much shorter. Had we been in high school, I would have picked him as a wrestler: short, squat and powerful. Now he looked like a guy who enjoyed time out on the water, perhaps on a boat. In college, I had two roommates of very similar size and build, so I knew not to underestimate his intelligence.
When he introduced himself, he seemed personable enough, perhaps even friendly, though business-like which suited me fine. He was courteous and on time. He had a firm handshake. He wore stylish, wraparound sunglasses. He was sharp and quick. He looked slightly familiar, though I couldn't place him. As it turned out, he had done a spot of work on the spa for us six years earlier, though neither of us remembered that at the time.
We started with a tour of the damage outside so he could work up an estimate. He got out a ladder, looked and poked and prodded. He made a few notes. I invited him in to go over the damage.
For those of you who don't know, just opposite the front door in the living room is Karen's telescope, a black 4.5 inch Newtonian mounted on a wooden tripod. As soon as he came in, he said, "Nice telescope. Is it yours?" I told him I had bought it for Karen a number of years back for her birthday. "Does she use it?" he asked. Some, but not as much as either of us first thought, I told him.
He then went into a bit of a diatribe as to how he bought his wife a telescope very much like it. She said she really wanted one, but now that she had it she never used it. He went on about how women were like that. He still seemed actively annoyed and angry both with her and at her. I think he was looking for some commiseration amongst males. I played it neutral but listened. I remember thinking, here's a guy who has some serious issues with his wife. I hope they can work it out.
He drew up and delivered a standard, printed contract, all very professional. He signed and initialed it, as did I. I gave him a down payment for the work. His crew came out the next week and did a competent job. I paid them the remainder. That was July.
A couple months later, in September, we discovered another piece of fascia that needed to be replaced, this one in the corner of the porch. Another contractor had discovered it when we had the roof painted. I called the carpenter again, and he came out to do another estimate. This time Karen was home when he arrived.
Immediately, I saw a difference in his demeanor. This time he was pitching his painting services as well, giving us the whole spiel about what he could do to improve the appearance of the house. We were in the market so we listened. The whole time he was talking, he didn't look at Karen, didn't talk to her directly at all. He seemed uncomfortable with her being there. When she asked him a question, he seemed annoyed and slightly condescending then directed his answer to me. By the time we finished, I had revised my opinion. Here was a man who had serious issues with women in general, not just his wife.
If anyone else had shown up for estimates, we would have given them the work. But no one else had. We wanted the work done before the damage spread, so we signed the contract. The work was completed a week later. Again, a competent job, nothing special. Karen wasn't around when the work was done or the check and receipt exchanged. I mostly forgot about it, though occasionally Karen and I would reflect on how oddly he had behaved toward her. We both knew he had some deep-seeded issues.
By now you may be thinking, dude, you must have lived a sheltered life. This guy isn't much of a character. Misogynists exist in our society. We don't like them but they are not uncommon. Get over it. Move on.
Allow me a Paul Harvey moment while I fill you in on the rest of the story. Page two.
Two months later, in December, I opened the City and State section of the local paper and was surprised to see the carpenter's picture and name associated with the top story. He had been arrested and charged with the murder of his wife over Valentine's Day that same year.
As it turned out, this man had a history of violence against women. His first wife used to show up with bruises and black eyes. He moved to Pinellas County after they separated. She disappeared while they were discussing custody of their children. He was the last person to see her when she jumped out of his car. He made up posters, asking her to get in contact. He said their kids were worried. Nine days later, her body was found in the woods off the highway. She had been bludgeoned to death. There was no physical evidence of his involvement. No charges were filed. That was back in '88.
He married his second wife within a year of the first's death. The relationship turned violent quickly. Within that first year, he had knocked out her front teeth in an argument. There were other incidents involving the police, arguments over an air freshener in the car that ended with broken glass, arguments involving alcohol. All involved violence.
Two years earlier, his second wife had her stomach pumped after a mysterious illness. That January she started saving money so she could leave him. Before she went with him to Universal Studies in Orlando after Valentine's Day, she told her sister she had a headache and, "I don't know if (he) slipped me something or if it is a side effect of our dinner on Valentine's day. Long story, I'll explain when I get you alone." Her last words, recorded on a voicemail to her boss sometime after 2 a.m. from the hotel on her last night alive, were "I don't want to die." She was crying.
It took the police a second autopsy to determine the likely cause of her death. The original finding was an overdose, Xanax and alcohol, supported by her husband's account of the evening. Her family didn't believe it. The second toxicology report showed she might have died of cadmium poisoning, like you would get if someone ground up batteries and slipped them into your food over a period of time.
As I read all this, I was struck that I had met this guy, that I had invited him into my home, into our home, as you might a vampire if you didn't know what he was. As I thought more about my interactions with him, one thing stood out. That July, as he had gone on and on about his wife and the telescope he had given her, he always used the present tense, as though she were still alive and it was an ongoing issue between them. He never gave any indication that she had died five months earlier. His reaction to Karen was equally as eerie in hindsight. Dissociative behavior, if I understand the term right. Like seeing blood in a Rorschach test. Bad news.
The case against him was dropped a few months later. Again, a lack of physical evidence. Again, he moved to a new city, in the Panhandle I think, or maybe out of state. Again, he found another woman who was interested in helping him raise his kids.
Will this man end up as a character in something I write? No, not specifically. But he did teach me a lot about how someone like him might look and act. I have little doubt about his guilt, none of it reasonable. I fully believe I have looked a murderer in the eye and have the receipts to show that I survived. Thinking about the encounters still sends me through an invisible shiver.
The story on This American Life I had been listening to (called "The Super") used a phrase that brought all this back to mind: The banality of evil. The phrase was coined by Hannah Arendt in reference to Otto Adolf Eichmann during his trial in Jerusalem for his role in the Holocaust. She used it to describe how normal and commonplace Eichmann looked, how completely ordinary, not sinister or demonic or monstrous as were his acts.
We have all heard a lot about evil over the past few years, though little about its banality. I think evil is like that, if you believe in such things which I'm not sure I do. I tend to believe much as my instructor on the Holocaust did, that to attribute an event to evil denies its underlying humanity. Evil is committed by ordinary men. They are mediocre, they are personable and blend in, they tell jokes, they can be fun at parties. Until they look you in the eye with malice in their hearts. Then they chill your blood. And, likely, then, it's too late.
Some days I wonder whether the phrase should be the ubiquity of evil instead of the banality. Some days, I think it should be both. In my experience, on any given day you never know what kind of person you might meet.
© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III
