OK, sure, maybe I shouldn't have engaged the actress--I hadn't spoken to her in days. But it was early morning, I wasn't awake, and, as often happens at the breakfast table, the starving artist up and says something to his wallpaper just to say something.
"I don't care what it looks like," I had said. "The fact is, I did not touch my muse--it was my muse who touched me."
"That's irrelevant," I had Sarah Bernhardt say. "The fact is, physical contact was made. Which clearly means--by your own creed--the muse is dead."
Normally, I would have put some thought behind my defense. But it was early morning, I wasn't awake, so I let the defensive boy-in-me handle the case. "Ya, well, maybe I'm the type of guy who's immune to the laws of muses."
"I've heard of no guy who's immune to the laws of muses."
I hadn't either. But it was early morning, I wasn't awake, so I puffed up like a super hero. "Let me introduce myself. I'm the alpha groundskeeper you've heard tell about."
Big mistake there. And it wasn't that Bernhardt kept calling me, "The alfalfa groundskeeper you've heard tell about." It was the laugh she gave after. No, if there's one affectation every actress learns in actress school, it's how to turn the leading man into an ass with a laugh.
Sarah, wanting more laughs, asked me to open my journal, read those incriminating words-to-live-by where muses were concerned.
"Those words are private. Only for my eyes."
"Read," she ordered.
I opened my journal, read in silence those fateful words-to-live-by. Those touching words that were right there on the page, I could see, but I swore to judge, jury, and the gods of muses, I could not, for the life of me, ever remember recording.
"Read," Sarah ordered.
"Touch the muse, torch the muse."
I stopped picking up storm debris, panned my trashed campus. No, mindless work was no blessing when a guy had words like, "Touch the muse, torch the muse," posted on the insides of his skull.
Mid afternoon, I thought I'd head up to the upper parking lot, wrap up my work-a-day with some mindless sweeping. At the top of the main walk, I stopped, surveyed the progress I'd made this morning on the fire lane.
Scanning for a break in the clouds, I spied a ray lower down--Apolena coming up the main walk. Whenever I saw Apolena coming, I wanted to pull out my pad and pen, write something. Something like: "I want to quit writing stories; start writing poetry. I want to quit building towers; start stringing lines along towers. Oh, how I will crackle out the verse once I'm the high power lines through which Apolena surges."
Apolena, looked up, saw me.
Oh, Apolena.
Lately, true to my vow, I'd managed to pass greetings-only when our paths had crossed. This proved difficult on two fronts: One, on every level I wanted to interact with the Czech Republican. Two, on every level Apolena appeared to want to interact with me. Oh, what a devastating state of affairs that wee vow of mine had created. And all because I was an inflexibly proud man-of-my-word.
With Apolena pulling up, I tested my broom for crutch-worthiness. No, we Men of Letters were a sensitve lot; prone to vertigo. And given the sweet way this girl had for mangling English, I didn't want to fall.
Yes, maybe it was high time the rogue word warrior gave up the good fight. Gave up the high road. Yes, watch me give up here; fall headlong down the low road of love.
"Apolena, how does this fine day find you?"
A shiver ran through her. "Fine day?" she said, hugging herself. "It sucks in the garden today."
I eased up on my broom. How tragic; not only had America's wild west wrapped its rawhide around her Czech tongue, she was becoming a smart ass to boot.
Oh, well, made what I had to say all the easier.
"Sucks is right," I said, posing work-ready with my broom. "And sucks in the garden makes much work for the groundskeeper." And away I went, sweeping up the fire lane.
But Apolena didn't walk away. I looked up. Ah, yes, she had wanted to show me the hurt in her eyes before she had walked away.
Poor Apolena.
Poor me. Now that I'd put an end to our talks, I'd spent our brief encounters reading Apolena's eyes. From that read I'd gained a new appreciation for her line of lines: "But my eyes, they're burning in the sun."
Hell, Apolena's eyes weren't just burning in the sun, Apolena's eyes were the sun. To think this power plant of a woman had walked into my life, and, because of my fanatical vows, I was missing out--had missed out; she was returning to Prague in December. No, who knows what profound growth I could have realized, tapping all that power.
****
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