They call groundskeeping mindless work, and that's why I'd gone the way of groundskeeping. Take this hose job, here; I could pull it off using the least bit of brains. Oh, sure, I was out here, freezing my ass off, but at least I had free reign of my brains.
Wiping my nose, I looked in the windows of the Red House where the Admissions staff sat all cozy at their desks. Oh, sure, those ladies had to feel sorry for me out in the rain, tethered to my hose like some kind of horse to a hitching post. But if they only knew the degree to which I felt sorry for them--their entire brains chained to the work on their desks--they'd take up a new profession; a mindless profession like mine.
Today, of course, my freed-up brains were full up with the second paragraph to my Great Work. Seeing how I'd ended the first paragraph with 'me horse,' I thought it apropos to expand a bit on said horse. A challenge seeing how I didn't know the first thing about horses.
Which brought to mind where a writer of my caliber was most likely to end up--on the Oprah show. Ya, and it would be just like Oprah to ask a lot of damn fool questions concerning horses. Sure, we writers had a lot of confidence where snowing our better readers were concerned, but snowing Oprah? No, this writer had best find himself a horse substitute.
Hosing away, I searched the wild west for another animal my protagonist could tie to his pine at the end of The Oregon Trail. I entertained the ox, the ass, the 20-mule-team. But, no, I knew even less about these beasts. Wait; I knew a lot about the wildlife on campus. Then again, tying Doug the squirrel to a tree wouldn't exactly sit well with Oprah's TV nation.
No, I'd best stick with 'me horse.' Ya, and if Oprah took to grilling me on said horse, I'd just have to use my male powers of persuasion; steer conversation to a topic I knew something about. Like, say, the hose job here.
"Oh, sure, Oprah, I whip out a Great Work every now and again, but what I really find fulfilling is walking up the driveways of America, showing the odd homeowner how to hose proper."
"Fascinating," Oprah would say. "Who knew there was a right and a wrong way to hose?"
"I knew."
I'd learned from watching Oprah, females liked the confident male. So I rolled up a sleeve, displayed a vein. "No, Oprah, the key is in the arm. Perhaps you've observed the hosers in your neighborhood, working their lower arms in a frenzy, causing the stream of water to race around like ball lightning."
"Yes," Oprah would say, "I have observed that." She turns to the camera. "Audience, have you observed that?" Oprah shows TV nation how to nod, then turns to me. "We've all observed that. And that's the wrong way to hose, isn't it?"
"It is, Oprah. But I don't want to get into the rocket science that is the hose job."
"Please, Mr. Celadon; do share."
"The object of the hoser is to move the debris line. Flashing the stream across the debris line moves the line a little. Tracking the stream slowly across the debris line moves the line a lot."
And for the first time on Oprah, Oprah was rendered speechless.
After the commercial, Oprah, having forgotten all about 'me horse,' turned to a subject her largely female audience on set had advised her to address.
"My," Oprah said, leaning in to get a look, "how young you look."
I'd learned from watching Oprah women liked men who climbed down from their high horses. "Well," I said, forcing a blush, "I don't know about that."
"I don't know, Mr. Celadon, but looks to me, someone here's found the fountain of youth."
"I have indeed. But I don't know if your largely female audience on set wants me to touch on all that."
Oprah checked her anger. "Look, we may all be brimming, here, with inner beauty, but if you've found the fricking fountain of youth, you'd better spill it, mister."
"It's nothing really. Just a little saying I've been saying religiously since I stopped aging back at 29. But I don't know if your largely female audience here wants me to--"
"You damned writers! If I'd a known you were all a bunch of secretive asses I wouldn't have started my book club. Now, listen up, tight ass; cough up your damned fountain of youth, or I'll kick you and your book out of my book club."
I'd learned from watching Oprah, I feared Oprah more than I feared success. I mean, who didn't fear Oprah? Who ever had the balls to keep a secret on Oprah?
I did.
"No, Oprah, I won't reveal my secret. And here's why: You can lead the middle-aged to the fountain, but it takes a whole lot of youth to believe."
****
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