The Hidden Lives of Quiet People
An apocryphal story in three scenes
Issue No. 48
Last year’s final issue was about people. I thought it would be fun to end this year with a piece about people too. On a personal note, it’s been a real joy writing these issues these past 2.5 years. Thanks for the incredible support.
When I started in June 2023, I was ambivalent about the idea of sharing something new every few weeks. (Books are very different since they take a while to put together.) But as with everything in life, when you fear something, it’s not a terrible idea to jump straight into it.
2023 helped me self-edit less, 2024 helped me become a faster writer, and 2025 helped me become more comfortable in front of the camera. (Thank you, Brian Regan, Basima Tewfik, Karen Giangreco, and Barry Ritholtz.)
For 2026, I think I want to spend more time exploring pictures and how they influence our thinking in subtle ways. We used to have a section dedicated to that in the early days, and so I’d like to revisit that topic and go deeper into it. And secretly, I’m hoping that’ll help me make progress on the third Bad Arguments book, seeing as I’ve been getting constantly sidetracked with what’s proving to be an intractable fiction project.
Much love. Be well. Enjoy the holidays.
On a walk the other day I got thinking: what if Anton Chekhov had been born in modern times, and if instead of dying at forty-four he’d started writing then, what might his made-up origin story have looked like?
Friday
It’s eight o’clock, the sun has long set on a port town, and a young boy of eighteen is getting ready to shave his uncle’s beard. His uncle’s living room is dark, small, and messy, its walls covered in books rising in uneven columns. Scattered across the floor are the notebooks he scribbles in late into the night. A tungsten bulb hangs from a cord and gently sways as an open window lets in the evening breeze.
The boy reaches into a drawer. He peels the paper sleeve apart, eases a new blade into his palm, and locks it into the waiting handle. He cranes his neck toward a notebook opened to its middle, held aloft by two suntanned arms poking out from under a sheet, and reads the title out loud—“At the Barber’s.”
“Where did you find that?” he asks, his voice piercing the silence of a neighborhood fast asleep.
His uncle, seated on the stool, is a man of forty-four. Quiet-faced, slender. A white sheet with yellow spots is tied around his neck, draping him from neck to shin.
The bottom half of his face is lathered in cream, making his cheeks look fuller than they actually are. He smiles, revealing a row of white teeth. His eyes remain fixed on the page. “While clearing out your room.”
The man tilts the book from side to side, as though balancing a flan on a plate, until the pages catch enough light to be legible. He squints for a moment, then begins to read out loud. The boy gently presses a thumb to the man’s temple and, with his other hand, slides the razor over the cream to reveal skin.
The boy grins as the story becomes more ridiculous—Erast Ivanitch Yagodov walking into the barbershop, then the ensuing banter, then the sudden news that drops the barber into an existential crisis.
“Remember this next part?” the man says, gesturing toward the page. “You used to love it.” The boy shakes his head as though to say he’s outgrown his younger self. “Don’t move around so much,” he snaps. The man’s giggling is proving contagious, and his next attempts at reading are barely comprehensible.
“Without saying a word Erast Ivanitch goes out, and to this day … and to this day … his hair is long on one side of the head and … and short on the other.”
He lets out a bellowing laugh. Abruptly, the boy laughs too, his hand slips, and the white cream is suddenly mixed with red. “Not again,” he murmurs to himself.
The man lowers the book. In the mirror straight ahead, his eyes dart from side to side as they follow the silhouette scrambling to find something to stop the bleeding.
(End of Part 1 of 3)
Saturday
A burly man in a black overcoat flinches as a third raindrop stings the back of his neck. Looking up, he sees the tear in his umbrella has widened. He lets out a groan and presses his briefcase tighter to his chest. The bus is late. The sky is sullen, his socks are soaked, and now his umbrella is falling apart. A disaster all around.
As the bus slices through a wall of rain, he gestures for it to slow down. The doors open, he backs onto it, holding his umbrella outside and giving it a singular shake before folding it under one arm. He shoots the driver a stern look, as though to say, “This isn’t the first time this has happened, is it?” The driver—quiet-faced, slender—looks away. He has much on his mind.
Unsatisfied, the rider sits on the very first seat, where an unobstructed view will allow him to quietly eye, seethe, tut, and sneer. Is the man wearing dress shoes and a three-piece suit under that yellow pinnie? Who does he think he is? And those gashes on his face, no doubt a brawl or some ungodly trouble he’s gotten himself involved with. The transit authority will hear about this.
A middle-aged lady in a wooly hat sits one seat away, a grey scarf looped twice around her neck. She leans in. “I couldn’t help but notice, are you the owner of the small press downtown?”
He looks at her, incredulous that a stranger would dare speak to him in such a state. “I’m a big fan of the books you publish,” she continues, disarming him for a moment.
He nods, begrudgingly, and looks away.
(End of Part 2 of 3)
Sunday
On a cold morning in the middle of town, the sun shines down on a bustling market. A middle-aged lady in a wooly hat leans against a car. With one hand, she props a tray of pastries on her hip. With the other, she idly toys with the ends of a grey scarf wrapped around her neck and gazes into the distance, lost in a reverie.
On the other end of the square, a boy of eighteen sits on the steps overlooking the market and takes in one last view of his town before he leaves for college. The pastry seller catches his eye.
A man in a tight shirt—buttons unbuttoned, sunglasses on—appears out of nowhere and taps the lady’s shoulder, gesturing for her to move away from his car. She stands upright, eyeing him, her back straight, and says nothing.
The boy leans forward and squints to get a better look.
She takes a deep breath and for a second appears unsure which direction to head. She shuffles a few steps in each direction, then finally stands in place, the tray now held up with one hand like a waiter at a restaurant.
She looks up to the heavens, squinting to avoid the sun, and takes a deep breath.
The boy is moved by the scene. He rushes down the steps toward her, stopping a short distance away, and for a moment just stares.
“I’ll have two, please.”
She curls her arm around the tray and picks out two pastries.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying this.” He clears his throat. “Your poise reminded me of my uncle’s.”
She hands him the pastries; he hands her two folded bills.
“What does he do?” she asks. “He’s a bus driver,” he says, adding, “Not a particularly good one.”
“And why’s that?”
“He’s never on time. He stays up late reading books, scribbling short stories into his notebook.”
The lady raises her eyebrows. “Well, what do you know,” she says. “We are alike.”
With her free hand, she fishes a newspaper clipping from her pocket, looks down at it and smiles.
“Funny story. I ran into this gentleman the other day on the bus. Recognized him right away. He’s a bit of an oddball.”
She hands the boy the clipping. “Here. He’s looking for help at his small press. Someone who loves reading. Your uncle should consider it.”
The boy holds the torn clipping with both hands, overwhelmed for the second time that morning.
(End of Part 3 of 3)
Until next time.
Be well,
Ali
P.S. Some past issues to read through in case you missed them.
So fantastic!!! Thank you for writing this and please continue, your style is captivating and the plot / subjects are refreshing.