"My," she might say, "what bare walls you have."
I might laugh. "That's a monk thing; we have an aversion to clutter."
Of course there was the clutter in the corner where I stood and wrote. Clutter in the nook where I sat and ate. Clutter on the floor where I lay and read. I moved a stack of novels so I could better see what was climbing in the spirals of my notebooks--those precious journals that housed my bare-bones words-to-live-by. Whoa, put that on your list-to-do: Sweep up dust bunnies.
"What's that?" the woman of my certain interest might ask, peering into the corner I never went in, where stood the blue fish chair I never sat in.
"That?" I might say. "Nothing really. Just a bad chair my last girlfriend gave me."
Oh, we writers; some nights we can't get a shower in for the dialogue pouring out.
Undressing, I thought of my last girlfriend, Rachel. She'd come over and say, "How can you live like this?" I'd say, "I'm a monk." She'd say, "You're no monk, monkey boy. Monks are celibate. You have sex with me every blue moon, so climb off your monk high horse already."
Out of the shower I thought of the positives of living alone. OK, so I was getting overrun by dust bunnies, but, for negatives, that was it. No, I'd pretty much cleaned house where negatives were concerned--those burdens that come from having a life.
Out of the shower, I liked to pace along my wall of south windows. No, I'd wax-papered my windows so the neighbors couldn't see me naked--or worse; pacing like an inmate at the zoo. Pacing, I itemized my positives: Nobody knocking on my door. Nobody calling me on the phone. No human contact whatsoever.
Well, other than colleagues at work.
And Bob, my sidekick. And a handful of ex-girlfriends I'd taken measures to stay friends with. Oh, ya, and my movie buddy, Deirdre.
I stopped pacing, looked at my phone. Damn, why doesn't Deirdre call? I sure could go for a movie about now. Let's see, what's playing? Oh, well, Deirdre will know.
I stepped up to my phone. Dialing, I thanked Hollywood. No, nothing I liked more than escaping into the Big Screen.
But wait; Deirdre wasn't home--had moved out of state.
I slammed the phone. "Thanks for the burden, bitch. Now I got to find me a new movie buddy."
For a girl, Deirdre made for a good movie buddy. She didn't go to movies to have a good cry--went home to her live-in boyfriend for that. No, Deirdre, like me, went to the movies to laugh at how love made asses of us idiot humans.
I looked at my door. Now what was there to look forward to? Then again, I was a monk. Monks didn't need anything to look forward to. Well, sure, we looked forward to death, but that was it.
OK, then; I'd give up movies. No, that's how we monks did it; with the wave of the hand we'd give it up. Then again, there was the popcorn. Which reminded me; tonight was pork shoulder stew night. I always looked forward to pork shoulder stew night.
Whistling, I set about doing dishes. Or, more accurately, dish. Fifteen years ago I'd received my divorce settlement; a saucepan. That's all I'd asked for. For fifteen years now I'd eaten cereal out of my pan for breakfast, salad out of my pan for lunch, stew out of my pan for dinner.
Then again, I didn't consume everything out of my saucepan. Take red wine. Occasionally, religion was called for of an evening. Saint-Emilion was my religion. And, oh, what a clean religion mine was. Without as much as dirtying a glass, I'd chug right out of the bottle whatever level of worship was called for of an evening.
Of course, tonight I had no saint--needed no saint.
My stew boiling, I took a seat. The tenant before me must have liked the stage; she'd wallpapered my kitchen nook with depictions of Sarah Bernhardt. I had a TV, but I found conversation with my wall more engaging. There were half a dozen of these Sarah's on my wall, and I'd select a Sarah depending on what kind of energy I had left of an evening.
This evening, I was beat, so I selected Sarah at her most provocative.
By her body language, the actress seemed to be saying: "If you are my waking reality, I'm going to sleep." This was all an act, of course--an act to get me to climb the wall. Which made me feel sorry for the actress. Night after night she'd put on her pathetic play-hard-to-get. And night after night I'd refuse to bite.
Tonight, I leaned back in my chair, said, "Ya, ya, Sarah, you're sexy and all, but where ever has sex gotten a guy of an evening?'"
Sarah didn't say anything.
Sarah was from an era when women had little to no say, so it always took some coaxing to get her to say anything.
Wolfing down my stew, I coaxed. "I know, Sarah; I know you had problems with the men of your era; shoving you onto pedestals, giving you no say, all so they could better worship you as object."
"You're right," I had Sarah say, "men in my day were idiots."
"Not to say men of my era have evolved much. But you're lucky to be hung on the wall of the one who has. No, Sarah, turns out I'm that rare type of guy who actually encourages his pedestaled women to speak."
"You're right," Sarah said, "you are an idiot."
"I'm no idiot."
"I stand corrected; you're an ass."
I didn't say anything.
"What you need, Anton, is a history lesson. Here, let me take you back to my era; show you what say we women had over our men."
Sarah was always doing this; inviting me to revisit history. I liked history, so I often bit. What I didn't like was how the history lesson always ended with her--in her milieu--making an ass of me, out of mine.
Time to talk about me in my time.
Pivoting in my chair, I placed my pan in the sink. "Say," I said, "that finger of yours. Ya, the one in your mouth. Reminds me of a finger I saw the other day at Student Orientation. You should have seen it; stirring a stub of a pony tail like there was no tomorrow."
"You don't say," I had Sarah say. "Perhaps this girl--this girl with the finger--is the same girl you talked to around noon today?"
I didn't say.
"Yes, I believe it was--the very girl in the orchard you talked to today like there were more tomorrows."
"Dammit," I said, sitting back, "I'm a working man, at the end of my work-a-day. The last thing I need is some dead actress giving me the third degree."
A good way to regain the upper hand with a depiction of a dead actress, is to switch depictions. So I took my eyes off the most provocative Sarah, planted them on the most innocent. This Sarah had a finger in her mouth as well, but, by her eyes, appeared to be bombed out of her mind. Now, to get the upper hand. But wait; what's up with the innocent's other hand? Why, it's a finger I'd never noticed before.
I couldn't believe it; Sarah the innocent, giving me the finger on the sly.
"Read it," I had Sarah say.
I knew what she was referring to. The code of conduct I'd written on stage the day of Student Orientation. The code I didn't want to recall. For it was the very code I had had the honor and privilege of breaching at first opportunity--breached around noon today.
Seeking escape, I closed my eyes, recalled something I'd observed the day after Orientation. I had looked up from my work, and there she was, The Woman Who Wasn't Trying, passing by with that boy from the wall. Because he was keeping his hands to himself, and she was looking down, talking at him without cheer, I didn't think much of it at the time.
I thought more of it in the days that followed, when every time I looked up, there she was, The Woman Who Wasn't Trying, looking down, walking with that same boy, talking at him without cheer. Sure, I was elated she seemed miserable in his company, yet devastated this boy-always had all the earmarks of a boyfriend.
"Read it," I had Bernhardt say.
I opened my eyes, stared down Sarah's middle finger. "Why?" I said. "I read it, you lay into me. I don't read it, you lay into me."
Thank God we writers had that advantage over non-writers. When it came to the heavy lifting of leveling with ourselves, we delegated that dirty work to peripheral characters.
I panned all my Sarah's; had them speak in unison: "And you call yourself an old soul. An old fool is all you are. The greatest gift an artist can receive was given you. A muse, a well spring of inspiration. And what do you do at first opportunity? You diffuse the muse by talking to the muse. And now that great work will never be created. The novel slated to save the world, never written. Fool; the seeds of Eden were placed in your hand. You ground them into flour."
This nether earth-plane, enough to drive an old soul to . . .
But tonight I had no saint. Needed no saint.
This nether earth-plane, enough to drive an old soul to . . .
But tonight I had no saint. Needed no saint.
****
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