unprompted/columns/2026-05-26-supporting-role.md

---
title: Supporting Role
date: 2026-05-26
layout: column.njk
tags: [column, writing]
permalink: /columns/2026/supporting-role/
---

> Let me drive the world through my dreams, that frictionless flow.

_A day will come where I accept an invitation for a meeting held somewhere deep inside the lobes of my unconscious self._


### Meeting Transcript - weekly milestone checkin

**Udit:** Let's give it a couple more minutes and see if anyone joins from the east coast.

**Amit:** I don't see any of them online.

**Karthik:** If they're not asleep by now, I can sync with them consciously tomorrow.

**Udit:** Yeah, ok. Hold on, someone just joined.

**Troy:** Hi, sorry I'm late. I started dreaming I was back at my last job. I honestly didn't notice anything was up until I started getting all these unauthorized alerts.

**Udit:** Not a problem. Ok, thanks everyone for joining.

> What supporting role am I playing in the story of someone else's life? What character am I playing in my own?

**Assistant Producer #1:** So what role are you're auditioning for?

**no. 26:** I'm here to audition for the part of Ramon, the earnest, but misunderstood, next-door neighbor.

**Assistant Producer #2:** That one's been cast, to the, uh, Broadway guy. You've got 'Drunken Mailman.' One chance, go.

**no. 26:** Yeah, great. Sure. Um, my uncle was an alcoholic. But he worked at the credit union, he wasn't like, active.

**Assistant Producer #1:** No wonder he drank. Let's go. It's 9AM and you're already loaded.

**no. 26:** Right. Ok, keep it together man. You can stop in three years when you're retired, and the pension kicks in and starts picking up the tab. Christ, I don't even remember which mailboxes I left my empties in this time. But God damn, I can't even make out half of the addresses on these fucking boxes. Damn kids, all educated and shit, don't even know how to write their fucking names any more. And then when mommy and daddy make them return some bullshit they bought online. Man, they're all fuckups. Like lunatics in an asylum, all riled up on pills, frenzied scribbling over any flat surface they can reach. *hic* oh, look. We're only at number 151. That guy's an asshole. *audibly pops invisible cork, swigs* 151, that means _ten more_ **Fucking** blocks *throws bottle, furiously. The glass smashes against a parked car. Its siren, wailing in pain and horror.* before I can stop and take a shit behind the bus depot. *spits*

Assistant Producer #2: Wow. Well, you'd make your uncle proud. Thanks. Out.


#### Further Reading
* Aspects of Death and Correlated Aspects of Life in Art, Epigram, and Poetry. By F. Parkes Weber.