Part I: Charles

"May I sit here?"

The woman was older than Charles by about five or ten years -- enough so that he could see the age in her eyes. She wore black glasses with thick rims that reminded him of something his aunt might have once worn in a bland attempt at fashion that, like so many of her wanton pursuits, failed miserably.

This was the part Charles hated. He looked her over, then realized he was staring. The woman was attractive and he inadvertantly looked down, ashamed and hating himself for feeling ashamed. Confidence was never one of Charles' strong points. He considered this one of this Major Failings. Always a good conversationalist with friends, strangers...especially attractive ones...were another matter entirely. While on one hand he despised awkward, pointless conversation, part of him longed to engage in small talk, even if he wasn't any good at it. Of course, he knew in these situations he had no choice. Charles was too polite (and too attracted to this woman) to ask to be left alone.

His personality made him sick -- everything was fine when he had been an unknown, but the past few years had been kind to Charles and his talent had been appreciated by more people than he thought possible. This was a mixed blessing. For many years Charles knew he would feel successful only if he could find some talent within him that made other people happy. Now that he had...well, Charles wasn't happy himself. While it had never come easy to him, he now found it almost impossible to make friends with strangers. The few close friends he had now he had gathered while growing up and during his college days. As he moved from place to place (which happened frequently now more than ever) Charles had lost contact with his friends one by one. The changing time zones and furious schedule kept him from maintaining any kind of regular contact.

Times like these made him wonder how many people were in similar situations. He looked across the aisle of the airplane at the older man who he could barely see behind the woman that now demanded his attention. His hair was thinning and the veins on his hands showed a lifetime of careful, delicate work. Was he the CEO of some large company? An athlete who reached his prime twenty ears ago, when Charles was just a boy? Perhaps the biggest accomplishment of this salesman was having found the pretty girl half his age he had sex with every Wednesday while his wife was in photography class.

Charles then looked back at the woman who waited to sit beside him and -- god forbid -- engage in some kind of meager conversation with him. What secrets did her life hold?

Steadying himself for the inevitable, Charles smiled and said, "I'm sorry. I mean. Sure. Please do. It's not taken."

As the woman sat down she squinted and looked at Charles curiously. "Your voice...it's...?"

"That's right," Charles replied, all hope of having a normal conversation once again banished. "I'm the voice of Homer Simpson."

"Amazing! I never would have thought...I don't mean to be rude, but you don't look like the type...." She faltered.

To be interesting? Charles thought. No, I suppose not. I suppose I don't.

"Could you do some Homer for me? Just a little?" she asked.

Cringing, Charles said, "I can't. I can't legally do it. You see, I don't own my voice. I mean, Homer's voice. FOX owns it. It's really complicated...." His voice trailed off.

Now, like a thousand times before, Charles missed the time during his life when he was able, however badly, to make small talk with a stranger.