The Loose Cannon
A sorta sci-fi short story inspired by Google alerts
Welcome to the debut post of THE LOOSE CANNON.
I’ve got a short story to share—THE MANY LIVES OF OWEN CREST—which just happened to take 2nd place in the 2022 Sarasota Fiction Writers short-story contest. While I shared that news with you all a couple years ago, I hadn’t found a good outlet to share the actual dang story.
Until now!
The story is 2225 words, so it’s a consume-in-one-sitting sort o’ thing, but it will mean this post scrolls a bit longer than what you’re used to from me. Forewarned and all that.
Before diving into the story, though, I must point out that it’s dropping the day after my birthday, so here’s a quick reminder…
My 49th Birthday Bonanza sale runs through the end of this week!
You can grab an annual subscription to Page&Stage for 49% off.
Typically an annual subscription is $50. But at 49% off, that means you get every podcast, newsletter, and Loose Cannon post—as well as a $20 gift card to the Ibis Books bookshop—for a cool $25.50.
In a fun bit of mathematical symbolism, that comes out to merely 49 cents a week!
I’m sharing this first post from THE LOOSE CANNON with everyone, paid subscriber or free. But starting next Wednesday, THE LOOSE CANNON will be available only for paid subscribers. So yeah. Click that purple button above and take advantage of me getting older!
Now for the story…
THE MANY LIVES OF OWEN CREST
Owen Crest didn’t make waves. Ever. And that is how he preferred it.
He kept a food journal and exercised regularly. He showed up to work on time, took only the occasional sick day—and these when he truly was sick—and spent his vacation days on solo hiking trips. He flossed religiously and resisted the siren song of social media beyond the occasional funny meme. He had a cat named Pixie and cleaned her litter box daily. He had no family to speak of, and while he didn’t have an especially difficult time landing first dates, he rarely had second ones, much less third. Because he didn’t make waves. He wasn’t boring, per se, but he was content. His contentedness ran so deep others found him aloof and indifferent. But this was not so. He simply avoided drama and saw no point to conflict. What was so wrong with routine and comfort?
So when the alumni director from his undergraduate alma mater called one day asking him to record a video talking about his career and his memories of the good ol’ college days—something to share with other alum on social media and such—he said no problem. Being agreeable was the surest way not to make waves. Even though the idea of filming said video made his stomach flip.
Owen grabbed an empty conference room at the office on a lunch hour and tried to make the video. It was hard going. He spent a good two-and-a-half minutes simply figuring out how to reverse the camera to selfie mode, and then another five or so minutes trying to balance his phone against a stack of books. But still the framing was off, and even when he did manage to get most of his face in picture, he kept stuttering and going off on tangents. Forty-four wasted minutes later, he had not even three seconds of usable footage.
A colleague returning early from lunch passed by and saw Owen stopping yet another take and puffing his cheeks in frustration. She popped her head in.
“You OK there, Owen?”
Owen explained the situation to the colleague, who suppressed her feelings of bafflement and instead offered her help. Owen seemed a harmless enough fellow, but what did she know about him beyond his name? She realized… practically nothing.
With her help, they knocked out the video with a minute to spare in the lunch hour. She handled uploading the video and texting the link to the alumni director, handed over his phone, then asked, “So when’ll this thing come out, anyway? You’ll be famous!” She laughed, but Owen merely squeezed a smile.
“Not for a couple weeks, I think. There’s some sort of alumni message board, but I’m not on that. I wonder how I’ll know when it gets posted.”
“Well that’s easy enough, Owen,” the colleague said. She was making an effort, but every drop of energy she offered sloughed off his shoulders. She forged on. “Just set up an alert.”
The look on his face said it all. She took back his phone, danced her thumbs across the screen for a few seconds. It dinged.
“There,” she said. “I’ve set it up so whenever something tagged with ‘Owen Crest’ is posted online, you’ll get an email. Be sure to share that video around the office when it comes out!”
Owen thanked her, finished the work day, went home to his apartment, heated up dinner, fed Pixie, scooped her litter box, took a stroll around his neighborhood, brewed a pot of tea, sipped three cups while watching a documentary about orcas, prepared the coffee machine, flossed his teeth, set his alarm, and fell asleep with Pixie purring next to his leg. He thought about the video not at all.
***
The next morning, Owen went through his usual routine. When he arrived at work, he opened his email. At the top of his inbox was a message with the subject: “Daily Update: Owen Crest.” He was surprised. The video couldn’t be up already, could it?
He opened the email. No alumni video, but three headlines highlighting Owen Crest. Not him, though. Three other Owen Crests.
The first other Owen Crest had won a “dream chopper,” which it took Owen a few moments to realize was a tricked-out, souped-up motorcycle.
The second other Owen Crest was listed as an inmate in a small Indiana town’s crime blotter.
The third other Owen Crest, ironically enough, was a police detective in Oregon, and had given an interview to a dogged local reporter about an ongoing investigation into a robbery.
Owen sat back. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Part shock, part resentment, part burning curiosity. He breathed out through his nose, let it be, and deleted the email. Of course the internet wouldn’t be able to differentiate between Owen Crests. His name was uncommon but not all that wacky, he supposed. That evening his routine clockworked crisply, the only difference being that instead of watching a documentary he read a big chunk of a new vigilante justice thriller novel. He slept content, Pixie purring by his leg.
The next day, another “Daily Update: Owen Crest” appeared in his inbox. One Owen Crest had published his thirteenth book about computer programming, this one focused on Linux. Another was being sued for libel. Yet another was a meteorologist who was gaining some sort of cult following for his TikTok videos, whatever those were. And today’s fourth Owen Crest was apparently a theatre director who had just opened a new show to middling reviews.
Owen’s heart sped up. Was he a weird Owen Crest, or an average Owen Crest? Why did it even matter? His vision swam around the edges. He deleted the email and followed his routines. That night, though, Pixie sensed something off. When she jumped up on the bed, she stayed down near his feet.
The next day. “Daily Update: Owen Crest.” More details on the robbery from the Oregonian detective. An economist talking about how an impending rail workers strike could upend the freight market. An executive of a media company arrested for fraud.
And the next day. Owen Crest wins 8th grade science fair. Owen Crest TikToks the weather. Owen Crest makes waves.
After a week of “Daily Updates,” Owen couldn’t sleep. His routines were tattered. He found himself clicking on every “Update” link, going down every Owen Crest rabbit hole. He quickly became proficient at social media, tracking the handles of these various Owen Crests through posts and pictures, sniffing out their hometowns and hobbies, their families and friends, their disappointments and dreams. If his work at the office suffered, no one noticed. Pixie, though, noticed her litter box was no longer pristine, and made her annoyance known by pissing on the sofa. She ignored Owen’s apologies as he scrubbed the stain, and sauntered off with her tail swishing.
Owen vowed not to read the “Daily Updates” anymore, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask his colleague to delete the alert permanently. He needed to know when his video got posted, after all.
But the very next morning… ding! “Daily Update: Owen Crest.” Only this update wasn’t about a real Owen Crest. It was about an author on a book tour for his new novel, the title of which was The Many Lives of Owen Crest. Owen choked on his bagel and glanced around the office, sure that everyone was watching him. No one was. No one ever did, really. But that didn’t give Owen any ease. Against all better judgement, he clicked the link. There it was. The cover of The Many Lives of Owen Crest. The author’s headshot and bio. The various outlets where one could purchase a copy.
Owen squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them. The cover was still there. Rubbed them. Still there. Did the artistically rendered silhouette of a man’s head sorta look like him? He puffed his cheeks, scrolled down, and saw that the author would be having a signing at the independent bookstore downtown tomorrow.
***
Owen arrived early at the signing to make sure he got a seat near the back. He resisted buying a copy. The author would start the event by reading the opening couple chapters. Owen wanted to hear before he saw.
The room filled. Cheese cubes were consumed. Free wine flowed. The author appeared. There was an intro, some applause, then the author cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, cracked the spine, and spoke clearly into a microphone.
“Owen Crest didn’t make waves. Ever. And that is how he preferred it.”
Owen sat gobsmacked. He heard not a word of the rest of the reading. Nor could he pay attention to the q&a that followed. His mind whirled with motorcycles and robberies, with science fairs and weather reports. He wondered if the rail workers strike would result in increased wages and improved safety protocols. He wondered how hard it would be to learn Linux. He wondered what it must feel like to be an inmate, though perhaps he already knew.
Applause brought him back to the moment. The author had answered a final question and taken a seat at a table, pen in hand. Owen stood up like a foal on wobbly legs. The crowd around him ebbed and flowed, cheesed and wined. He bought the book and got in line. Scribbled autograph by scribbled autograph, the author got closer. Then it was Owen’s turn at the table. His thighs bumped the edge. He looked down at the author looking up.
“Thank you for coming,” the author said.
Owen could only nod. He held out his book.
“And to whom should I make it out?” the author asked.
Owen licked his lips and croaked, “Owen.”
The author laughed, genuinely delighted. “How wonderful! So apropos! And your last name?” The author put his head down and started to scribble.
Owen wanted desperately to say “Crest.” Wanted desperately a lot of things. But in the end, all he said was, “Owen is fine. Just… Owen.”
The author finished scribbling. “Here you go then, ‘just Owen.’ Thank you again so much for coming.” The book was shoved back into Owen’s hands and already the author’s eyes were moving past him to the next patron in line and Owen could do nothing but shuffle around the table and out of the meeting room into the store proper, which bustled with readers excitedly clutching their signed copies. He found an overstuffed chair and sank into it. He opened the book, curious what the author had scribbled.
There was no inscription.
He blinked. It was impossible. He had watched the author scribble autographing ink across that title page, and even blow it dry to prevent smudging. But the page gleamed at him, clean and creamy-white. He flipped through all the front matter pages. Nothing. He puffed his cheeks, ran a shaky hand through his hair, and turned to the first page. He read the first line.
“Owen Crest didn’t make waves. Ever. And that is how he preferred it.”
Fingers fumbling, Owen flipped to the back, found the last page of the story, and read the final line.
He snapped the cover closed. He sat in the chair. The book sat on his lap. The bookstore buzzed around him. He watched without seeing, unmoored from all routines. The author left, his agent hustling him to whatever gig was next lined up. The day passed. The customers melted away. The staff puttered around, cleaned things up, made small talk. Still Owen Crest sat in the overstuffed chair. No one paid him any mind. The staff began to leave, headed to their homes. The manager was last. She looked around, saw nothing untoward, turned out the lights, and locked the door.
Owen sat. Darkness crept from every corner on soft, padded feet, like Pixie stalking whatever prey she imagined she saw. Night fell. Morning rose. The manager came in early to check the sales figures. She clucked her tongue when she saw a discarded copy of The Many Lives of Owen Crest lying in an overstuffed chair. The author had been a bit full of himself, she thought. She shelved the book and got to work.
Owen didn’t show up at the office. No one really noticed. They figured he’d gone on another hiking trip or quit or something.
A couple days later an upstairs neighbor got the super to open Owen’s door. There’d been incessant yowling. The door had opened barely a crack before a cat shot out through the super’s legs and disappeared down the stairs. The apartment was tidy but empty, and smelled like ammonia. When Owen failed to return, the manager of the complex voided the lease, kept the deposit and the furniture, deep cleaned all the rugs and upholstery, and re-rented the apartment as a furnished unit.
At some point, a “Daily Update” dinged in an inbox that hadn’t been checked in a while. There was a link to a video: “Owen Crest, class of ’98, updates us about his job and reminisces about his days on campus.” It garnered a few views and fewer likes, mostly from other class of ‘98ers, then disappeared into the depths of the internet like a stone tossed into the sea. Barely a splash. Barely a ripple. And certainly not a wave.