Writer Wednesday (Friday Edition)
The opposing viewpoint
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The Prompt: Take another’s POV; put on different lenses, flip the story.
I’m going to ask you to step aside, once again, from a first-person perspective - and put yourself in the first-person shoes of ‘the other’.
Take a common scene from your life. It can be as mundane, intense, or as odd as you like. Yet within it, discover what the conflicts or opposing views are: it can be an argument with another person, a misunderstanding, or a silent interaction. What side would you normally be on? As right, or as correct as you think it would be - there is, of course, a person with another viewpoint with opposing/conflicting needs and goals just as valid as yours, which you probably don’t share, or know about.
Now, step out of your body - leave that husk behind. Tip-toe over to ‘the others’ POV. As much as possible, write as you would about yourself - from the inside. Like you, what do they need in this moment? What’s important to them at this moment? Let your imagination run wild.
An example:
PERSON #1 POV:
I was sweeping up a glass that had broken in the middle of the street. It had shattered everywhere, looking like a field of diamonds on the pavement. I didn’t want cars running over the diamonds, tires bursting, children running across the street, cutting their feet, neighbors wondering what’s become of our perfect neighborhood. I wasn’t happy about being out there in the morning heat. It wasn’t my street, or my problem, but I saw all that glass and thought I’d do a good deed. A guy walked by on the sidewalk after about 25 minutes into my good deed. It was hot; I was a visitor there. I'd wanted to explain myself to someone, anyone, so they’d feel safe.
PERSON #2 POV:
The hill felt steep that day. I’d been walking it for five years since we moved, after the thing happened. Being in this place, the thing got better. It was a regular place, we all knew each other, though I kept to myself.
Because of the thing.
But that day, I was of breath. What happened? I remember thinking, I’ll call that doctor or drink more electrolytes, maybe it’s dehydration.
I don’t look around much when I walk; I look at my feet. It’s meditative, safer, and folks don’t interact with you if you’re preoccupied.
But that day, I looked up. I noticed some guy is in the middle of our street. I’ve never seen him before. But, there he was, in the middle of our fucking street, sweeping it up. Angry sweeping, I would say. As I got closer, I saw he was wearing pajama bottoms and slippers. It was early in the a.m., it was going to be 110 that - and he’s going at it, focused on whatever it is. Sweating. I almost turned around and headed back down, but my place was further up, four more houses, past the Willoughbys, Packards, and Jacksons, and I’d have to turn around and hike back up again anyway.
I stopped. I thought it through, like I was told. This is our street. I don’t know him, he looks crazy, and you don’t see this kind of thing every day.
I put my hand in my pocket. The knife or the coyote spray? I opted for the coyote spray. If he gets close to me or raises that crappy green broom, I’d use it. It’s for coyotes, so who knows how it’ll affect a crazy man. I realize, I’d like to find out - basic human curiosity.
I also realize, now that I’m armed, I have the upper hand - weapon for weapon - I can stroll by him, on guard but not anxious, just as the doctor advised me, so I don’t get in any more hot water…
(Ok, I went on a bit, but it was a really fun exercise!)
There you have it. Two opposing viewpoints. Let ‘er rip!
This is based on an actual event back in 2008...
POV - #1
I have 11 months left to live. I can feel it in my bones, way down deep in the marrow of my soul, if that makes any sense. I suppose it does to some, but most people can't understand. That's okay, nothing new there. It is not uncommon to know that you're going to die. Everyone knows that. But it is less common to know roughly how long you've got and quite rare to know exactly how much time you have left. So, I am ripped out of my gourd on marvellously ass-kicking opium and belladonna suppositories, sitting on a park bench out on the seawall in Stanley Park. It's a typical misty-grey rainy Vancouver day. Not a lot of people out and about on this one. But some guy just jumped out of the woods and is standing next to me, right here by the park bench I happen to be occupying. He's a skinny, decidedly diminutive dude, and he's wearing a Halloween mask just like the one my childhood hero The Lone Ranger wore. A closer gander tells me he’s a uniquely talented chap who has crafted his mask out of cedar twigs. Cool. He's also wearing a Mountain Co-Op rain jacket like a Marvel super-hero cape. Otherwise, he is buck naked. He's sporting nothing more than his mask, his cape, his birthday suit, a sardine-sized hard-on and a shit-eating simian grin. I feel lucky. The cancer is killing me, and I ‘m sure I only have eleven months left to live, but I’m going to have a few good laughs before I go. I think I’ll address him as Slim and offer him one of my Tim Horton’s donuts.
POV - #2
Surprise, big fella! How do you like me so far!? You probably think I’m a figment of your imagination, but I’m not. I'm the real deal. Are ya lookin’ for some action? I’ve got so much to give. Hey, stop laughing. It’s not funny. No, I don’t want a fucking donut. My name is not Slim and a Tim-Bit is out of the question. I’m serious. Action I’ve got so much to give, I wanna give it, I wanna get some too -oo- oo -oo. Shit. Some people. No appreciation for the fine art of seduction. See you later.
PERSON 1 POV
Merciless green tubes of fluorescent lights, cracked and filthy beige linoleum tiles, rows of industrial washers and dryers and I've got that thousand-yard laundromat stare. Starving for dinner but the quarters reserved for cleaner clothes, I gnaw on my lips. Van Ness Boulevard is empty, hey it's Super Bowl Sunday and I'm the sole customer at Speed E. Laundy. Four washers blast a loud END OF CYCLE -- what is it, a warning? Dragging cold wet clothes into dryers and dropping endless quarters to dry them. I press START and nothing happens. I press it again on the next dryer. And the next. They are silent useless cradles of wet clothes. I'm out of quarters and out of my mind. Dragging pounds of soggy sheets and pillows and my goddamn tennis shoes for chrissakes, slopping everything into an oversize duffel that is now sagging and weighs more than five of me. I scream and no one hears. Digging in my purse a tube of lipstick surrenders itself for a higher purpose. OUT OF ORDER I scrawl on every surface until the red wax runs out. Starving and victorious, I drag a corpse of soggy clean laundry out the door.
PERSON 2 POV
It's the end of the line for me, a fat sports photographer standing in a line of desperate shooters waiting for some multi-millionaire to snag a Super Bowl Hail Mary. I didn't make it to the head in time and now my pants are soaked with piss. Packing it in, I drag multi-millimeter lenses and camera bodies to my van. I need a clean change of clothes, but I can't go home. My wife doesn't need another reason to despise me.
I stop in front of the Speed E. Laundry. There's a woman inside running around screaming and pounding on the machines. She looks electric. She's beautiful in her madness. I cannot go inside as I fear and desire her and also, my pants are soaked. All I can do is take her picture. Now she's scrawling something huge and red on the machines. My motor drive captures it all and I am ecstatic for the first time in how long I don't know. Desperate not to lose this, not to lose her I crawl back in my van and dig out clean pants. I change as fast as I can, which is not fast at all. Back on the street I see her leaving and all I can do is cry out PLEASE STOP! but she doesn't hear, she's slowly walking away, dragging a duffel bag. Leaving a long trail of water in her wake.