The Secret Life of Elliott Mitty 2: The Brian Wilson Post
“Turn that Smile upside down, folks. The warmth of the sun is now forever just a bit colder, because, little deuce hearse, we know what you got: Brian Wilson’s body. But not his spirit, which has caught the ultimate heavenly wave. RIP, everyone’s favorite Pendletone.”
Elliott Mitty was pretty pleased with this. His best work? Hard to say really. But, if the Facebook algorithm lets it run free, it could well prove his most popular.
And he already has a comment! It’s from Caldecott: “What’s peddletone?”
Mitty’s reply: “The Pendletones were what The Beach Boys were called before they were called The Beach Boys.” A good post leaves room to gracefully demonstrate more of what you know. Caldecott is not doubt so impressed by him at this moment.
Mitty gazed serenely out the picture window of their condo and out to Studio City’s blue cloudless sky, distrupted only by the large illuminated Gelson’s sign above the store a block away.
He saw Jane Lynch shop at the Gelson’s by the nuts when he was there once to get some special British cream you can’t get at like Ralph’s. He also heard that the uptight lady from “The Office” (Mitty thought the show was okay, but that it didn’t break enough rules) gets the orzo salad there. Cherries are at least 12.99/lb. They sell The Economist. It has a slogan like “Flavor’s just a little better here.” So yeah, a pretty solid store to be looking at from your home if there has to be any.
At the moment, Mitty’s wife was out shopping at Ralph’s. Their son, Ray, was at soccer practice. It wasn’t a club team. It was the less intense AYSO league (“So, how did you guys do in the game?” “How’d we do?” “Yeah, did you win?” “I don’t know.”) Oh, right, Mitty remembered as he checked the time, he’d have to leave to get Ray from practice in 5 minutes.
But this last couple hours or so was quite nice. The first time Mitty finally got truly proper space to write the just-right post re: Brian Wilson’s death—not too much, not too little; again, just right. Elegant, restrained.
Mitty knew how Brian must’ve felt as he continually had to disrupt his creative genius sonwriting flow to hit the road night-after-night with the band in those earlier days. Mitty rarely gets a break either, between work and having to constantly take out trash, unsubscribe to stuff, and wrap gifts (he felt like he was always figuring out gifts and wrapping them—Ray’s birthday, Mothers’ Day, his dad’s birthday, and on and on).
Another similarity between he and Brian Wilson was that much of their latter works were widely misunderstood. For Brian, that’d be his stuff up through some of “Smiley Smile” and maybe that song “‘Til I Die” also. Anything after that wasn’t misunderstood, Mitty decided. It just wasn’t very good. For Mitty, all his FB posts of the last five years including now were not nearly fully appreciated.
Anyway. After Mitty finished NYT Connections—where he correctly connected “Museum,” “Poetic,” “Paper,” and “Seal” but not because of how NYT said they related (“Wax _”)—he clicked to Facebook again.
Hmm. Just one Like since he posted 17 minutes ago. And it wasn’t even a heart or hug. It was from Ray’s friend’s mom’s girlfriend, Moe, who he only met once. But she seems to get him obviously. Gave this post a Like after all. Maybe she’s one of the more casual, sophisticated type of Facebook user who sticks to just the original Like way of liking even if they do actually love or want to hug a post.
Mitty sympathized. “28 killed in Russian missile strike on Kyiv hotel” and all you can give is the same cute smiley face guy crying you’d give when the Lakers lose.
Wait. Dammit. Has Leo not seen the post yet? Or is he not on FB anymore? Why hasn’t he given this a Like? (And come to think of it, why didn’t Lou Like his posts for Sly Stone and Gene Hackman [“If Gene was Hollywood’s every man, we, every one of us, died a little today…”] either?)
Mitty’s head spun a little: That cold hot feeling again that, if he followed it to the end of its tracks, he’d find pure undisputable loneliness. He shook it off with the help of remembering Traitors being on tonight. Sure, Mitty hasn’t liked Leo’s posts either, but those are just typical family photos and “Supporting Prairie Elementary with these lovely humans” pancake breakfast posts.
Okay, relax, Mitty muttered to himself. He just needs to be patient. Someone—maybe Moe—will eventually get it all going for him. They’ll finally feel enough for something he’s written (maybe when McCartney or Wonder finally die) that they’ll actually re-post it. Then the algorithm’ll kick in and soon voila he’s the one that someone recognizes at Gelson’s—probably at the cereal section, which he’s always wanted to be allowed by his wife to purchase from. Grabbing $14 bags of artisanal granolas with the founders’ breakfast manifestos on the side. He’d then even become a celebrity co-founder of a granola himself, which is, after all, his ultimate aim. He had so many thoughts re: mascots in the artisanal food space.
Oh, Brian Wilson didn’t actually surf! That’s right! Would people think he doesn’t know that from the bit about catching the ultimate wave? Shit.
His fingers sweating, his breaths quickening, Mitty quickly added, “And, no, Brian didn’t actually surf. But any hope he’d therefore fall off that celestial board and back to this mortal coil was dashed.”
The post is getting too scruffy now. Its edges are flaking. He frantically tweaked some more. And some more. But the post was beginning to lose its original gem shape. It was crumbling in his hands! It was almost there! Oh, and what about Brian joining his brothers in Heaven to harmonize once again? How did he not get that in the first time? Idiot! Mitty couldn’t even see straight at this point. He continued hammering at the keyboard. No narrator now can really figure out what he’s even doing.
Oh! Wait. A comment! And from his wife! She never comments! Thrilled, Mitty read it: “You’re not doing this post as you drive, right? You are getting Ray from practice, right?” “Yes of course. You can text me, you know,” he quickly replied. He saw now that she’d also texted.
Shit. He clamored for his fob and jacket. Checked the time. He’ll be just 10 minutes late or so. He can just tell Ray time itself slipped. That there are gods who will do that with time because they are prankster deities. They reside in the peaks of the San Gabriels. And he (Ray) didn’t know that because all science is lies. And therefore all he’s learned is false and—
“God Only Knows” has to fit in the post somehow too, right? Ugh!
Fuck. This is what he has to deal with!: too many dazzling ideas shooting out from his brain constantly. This was Brian’s burden as well. Those things ringing around in his head, banging into each other, making a sour discordant din in there until he could harmonize it all into 2-and-a-half minutes of sunshine.
Mitty sat down. Clicked “Edit Post.”
Whoa! But as he went to make the changes, he saw 7 new likes!(?) In the last minute! His heart leapt. Is this when he’s finally being seen for what he is? Did he finally break through?
He clicked the notification…
Well, they’re all—all 7—for his wife’s comment. All laugh emojis.
Mitty slumped. The Gelson’s sign just kept doing what it does—but with an additional snarkiness—directed at him—for sure.
Suddenly, Ray walked in, slammed the door, dumped his soccer bag, headed to the iPad. “You’re home?”
“Yeah.”
“But I was on my way to get you. I’m almost at the field” Mitty lied, pretending to steer a car.
“Alberto’s mom gave me a ride cuz you didn’t show up.”
“Well, some gods in the mountains had uh…” But Ray seemed past caring about it now.
“How was practice?”
“Prack?”
“Practice.”
“Oh okay.”
“Did you ask coach about wanting to try center mid?”
“Yeah.”
“…Okay. What’d he say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t— Where are you going?”
“To my room.”
Just like Brian Wilson’s “In My Room,” Mitty realized. Or almost like it. Ray said, “To my room” not “in.”
____________________
The first installment of The Secret Life of Elliott Mitty can be found in ish 29 of The American Bystander.
Thank you very much, m8
This is the stuff.