Walking, I raised my draft, took a read on that lean plate of meat that was my ex-wife short story. Retching, I spanked my draft against my thigh, took a read on the tossed greens either side of the trail. I was walking in the rainforest by myself, of course, but I made as if my better reader had caught up with me.
"You know," I had my better reader say, "reading your short story is like taking a swim in grease. Why is that?"
"Oh, that," I said, raising my draft. "It has to do with atmosphere. See, I wrote this in my apartment. What I have in there--for airs--is whatever animal I happened to be boiling of an evening."
My better reader thought I'd better think on this, so I found me a dead log, sat down, gazed out into the living woods to better think on this.
"Tell me," I had the moss say, "is there any life in your apartment to speak of?"
"Of course there's life. There's the two fruit flies I speak to over every bottle of wine. Then there's the one moth that somehow gets into every pair of underwear I pull from the drawer."
"So," said the moss, "you got bugs."
"I got more--got that actress, Sarah Bernhardt on my wall. She and I largely speak of life. Of course, she's dead. Not to say her company is any less lively than some of the living I've had the pleasure of."
"And you," I had the moss say, "are you sure you're alive?"
"I am. But see, I'm an old soul, so life for me is only the half of it."
"How's that?"
"See, Moss, I, too, started off a rudimentary life form like yourself, clinging to limbs as if my life depended on it. But then I died. Only, death wasn't the end to it. Turns out, only in death do we go on. But the real kicker is what happens after death. Turns out, the soul comes back, has another life. Ya, I know, phenomenal, yes. Well, anyhow, after flipping between life and death for a millennium or two, I got up enough in the way of gray matter to put some two-and-two together: Turns out, life and death are the two sides of the same coin. Ya, and that coin is nothing short of existence."
Well, that sure gave the moss a leg up where his better evolution was concerned.
Then again, I hadn't hiked out into the woods to lift no leg of moss; I'd hiked out here to please my better reader.
I rocked over on a buttock, pulled out my walking buddy, my red pen, crossed out all coldcuts from my ex-wife story.
Having inked-in some salad here, some dressing there, I was brightening the last sentence, when I became aware of the time--had my Writing Circle to get to. So I got up off my dead log, headed home to type up my greened-up Ex-wife story.
Before driving over to Bob's, I sat in my pickup, gave my greened-up short story a reread. For some reason it wasn't rereading right. I surveyed the light in my cab. My post WWII pickup still had its original paint--battleship gray. No, with light like that reflecting off my dash, it was clear; the greens I'd added in the rain forest were a tad colorful, and worst of all, in good taste. After all, the whole point of the ex-wife story was to paint the big gray boulder, dig a hole, bury it.
I pulled out my driving buddy, my red pen, slash and burned the rain forest out of my short story. But then I realized, where goes the salad, so goes the dressing. And it was the dressing--that recurring vinaigrette theme--that provided the all important trajectory that set up my twist-of-lemon ending. Oh, how precious I found that clever ending. Then again, my Writing Circle was always criticizing my cleverness. So, I went battleship on my ending; grayed it down till it was neither here nor there.
Of course, here-nor-there was just bad writing.
That was that then--my ex-wife story needed a complete overhaul. I threw the seven pages on my dash. Nope, there'd be no reading in Circle by me tonight.
"Hurry in," Bob yelled from his side door. "I need to show you something."
Two things about this welcome concerned me. One: Bob, welcoming me. Two: Bob, excited about something.
These two things could only mean one thing. "Now, Bob; if you got some woman in there, tied to your bedposts, I really don't need to see it."
"I got something in the mail."
"Now, Bob; if you got some mail-order bride tied to the kitchen sink, I really don't need to see it."
"I got a letter to show you."
Relieved, I closed my battleship door. "OK, but this can't take long; we got our Writing Circle to get to."
Stepping up Bob's side steps a couple of things concerned me. One: Bob wasn't laughing at me. Two: Bob wasn't scoffing me off.
Wait, that must be it; Bob had no story to read, neither. Brightening, I said, "You do have a story, I hope."
"Ya, but it's a new story. One I knocked out this afternoon."
I'd have scoffed Bob off, but I knew Bob--he was always typing up stories in one sitting. Damned good ones, too. "What's this new story about?"
"Meat. Meat and money."
That seemed right; meat and money had Bob written all over it. What didn't seem right, stepping into Bob's kitchen, was Bob's breath--no smell of alcohol.
Bob hurried over to his daisy table, seized a sheet of paper propped up against two open jars; one peanut butter, one jelly. Bob laughed, said, "This letter came in the mail. It concerns an old college buddy of mine. See, Andy was the guy in college who lived to laugh. He could say a word--one word--and put you in stitches for days." Bob laughed. "See? I just heard Andy say, 'Heinous.' Andy said that word, what, 26 years ago--in his dorm room--and I'm still laughing."
I didn't feel like a laugh--had no story to read in Circle tonight; felt more like throwing the book at Bob. "'Heinous' isn't funny Bob. 'Heinous' is, in fact, exactly the opposite."
Bob's face grew serious, showed me the sheet of paper. "This note is from Andy's wife. Andy's dead--killed himself. She says he wanted me to have--"
I couldn't believe it; guy-guy Bob, choking up.
Shaking, Bob dropped the note, seized the center piece off his table. He froze, holding on to the gallon of gin as if he were holding onto God. Instead of taking a drink, though, he set the bottle down, petted it like a puppy, then sat down himself.
I wanted to say, 'Drink up Bob, I need you to be your dog self.' Instead I put my hand on the bottle, said, "Give it here. My day, you wouldn't believe."
"Not on my life," Bob said, seizing the bottle. "No way are you drinking and driving me."
I already felt as if I'd entered the wrong house--Bob excited to see me, Bob not drinking. But seeing Bob sticking one index finger in the peanut butter, the other in the jelly, was over the top. Bob eating? No, I'd never seen the like.
Smacking, Bob said, "Andy waffled all through college. Ended up with a double major; Business Admin and Art. I tried talking him out of Business because he had painter written all over him. You know, the kind of guy who could have actually thrived starving to death. But, no, he went into Real Estate, made a fortune." Bob reloaded his gun fingers with PB and J, got up. "Come with me. I got something to show you in my bedroom."
"Now, Bob; if you got--"
"Sick-fuck. I got no woman in there. I got art."
I followed Bob into his bedroom. "Check this out," he said, pulling up to a painting up against a chair. "It came with the letter."
"Andy painted this his freshman year. He had it hung in his dorm room. I'd always sit so I could look at it when we got stoned." Bob laughed. "It's called Man Beating His Meat. To think he kept it all these years. To think he wanted me to have--" Bob really choked up this time.
I was so uncomfortable with Bob's choking all I could think to say was, "I stand corrected, Bob; 'heinous' is funny, isn't it?"
Having swallowed, Bob picked up the painting. "This painting . . . Andy's wife said he wanted me to have it. But look what the asshole wrote on the back."
Bob turned the painting over. On the back, painted in big white letters were the words, "I Should Have Listened."
I always thought the scariest thing for a man was to stand in a girl's bedroom when she started blinking back the tears. I stand corrected. Here I was, standing in the bedroom of the most calloused guy on the planet. He was blinking his ass off, and boy, was I scared.
I'd had a lot of experience in the bedroom, had my sure-fire formula for cajoling teary-eyed women. But guy-guy Bob? It seemed reasonable to do the opposite.
Bucking up, I said, "OK, Bob, I'd love to talk, but we got our Writing Circle to get to. I got this killer short story out there on my dash, and if I don't get to read it on account of you making us late, I'm going to be super pissed."
****
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