The Writer: Alchemy

Alchemy

This is the fifth and final installment of The Writer posts, initially titled “Favor” – a post split into three episodes. For better or worse, its purpose is about the only thing about that has remained intact since I started writing it. I’ve renamed it “Alchemy” for reasons that I’m arrogant enough to assume will be made abundantly clear in the end.

All of this writing really amounts to an attempt at some form of recovery from sour times via internet vignettes.

Stories relating to and including The Writer himself are likely to follow given how often we tend to pal around.

And, as always, thanks for reading.

D

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Episode I: Accord

“The value of the grand unification energy is not very well known, but it would probably have to be at least a thousand million GeV [giga-electron volts]. The present generation of particle accelerators can collide particles at energies of about one hundred thousand GeV, and machines are planned that would raise this to a few thousand GeV. But a machine that was powerful enough to accelerate particles to the grand unification energy would have to be as big as the Solar System – and would be unlikely to be funded in the present economic climate.”

--Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time

I could tell he was uncomfortable. We’d been sitting in silence for a full minute or better. I looked over, trying to read him and got nothing. The tacit tension continued. I started getting uncomfortable myself by the time the bill arrived. We rose and left the restaurant, leaving a five on the table for the waitress we’d kept at bay all night with our antics.

The car chewed up the miles between the scene of the crime and the pub. We spoke a little then, carefully at first, sweeping the conversational landscape for mines. Farmland streaked by as the blacktop paid out beneath us. One word exchanges lengthened to two, then five, growing more and more as we neared the pub. By the time we pulled into the driveway, we were laughing and debating this and that again. He was taking me too seriously and I wasn’t taking him seriously enough which meant things were more or less back to normal.

We staked out two seats at the bar and got good and silly. Old war stories, college misadventures, and the like came to the fore. We laughed long and easy. The writer, normally a Blue Moon fan, matched my order. I took it as an additional sign that everything was alright. Good times.

All around us patrons unconsciously acted out the lyrics to bad country music. Occasionally, one or two of them would cast a wary glance toward the great peals of laughter echoing from our end of the bar before returning to their southern fried charade.

Before long, my sides and cheeks were hurting like hell. It was late and getting later all the time but I was happy and couldn’t care less what time it was. Eventually, however, wisdom prevailed despite the beers and we fled before any real damage could be done.

* * * * *

The sliding glass door that leads to his porch has a tendency to stick. To open or close it, one has to pull it from the bottom, else it won’t move at all. I flicked my half-smoked cigarette into the wind and came in from the porch. I knelt to close the door, goofy and geisha-like, dimly aware that I had work the next morning. Something was on television that neither of us was interested in watching. The night had just begun.

The Writer emerged from the kitchen and poured something cold and clear into a tiny glass he’d set in front of me. The bottle was large and covered in unfamiliar writing. I knocked the drink back in one gulp. It tasted like… pear? Yes – it was almost certainly pear flavored. I smiled again, thinking, “I could get used to this stuff.”

“You’re not supposed to shoot that,” he said patiently, pouring me another. He gestured with his free hand. “Sip it”.

I nodded, carefully picking up the drink and knocking it back in one gulp. It was delicious. “That was delicious!” I bleated, flashing the smile of a delinquent toddler. The Writer was not amused.

By the fifth tiny glass, I’d learned my lesson. I sipped, gripping the tiny glass fiercely, easing a new cool and tantalizingly dark liquid over my tongue. This stuff was different yet familiar. It took a while before the name of the flavor came to me. “Raspberry!” I cried victoriously. The word fell out, heavy and wet. I grinned like a proud puppy. The Writer smiled and nodded in agreement.

Episode II: Genesis

“About one hundred seconds after the big bang, the temperature would have fallen to one thousand million degrees, the temperature inside the hottest stars… Within only a few hours of the big bang, the production of helium and other elements would have stopped. An, after that, for the next million years or so, the universe would have just continued expanding, without anything much happening.”

--Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time

He’d been painting. The combination of the hard work and the fumes had ground him down a bit. A lingering cold he’d been battling did the rest. By the time he joined me on the back porch, he was an awful hacking mess. I wouldn’t have said anything if he hadn’t sounded so awful.

“You sound awful”, I said.

“Eh [hack] [wheeze], I’m fine.” He cleared his throat, making a sound like a growling pit bull. Placing his hands on the wooden railing, he spat out an impossibly large wad of phlegm before blowing his nose into a fistful of wet napkins. I immediately thought of Captain Tripps and shivered. He shouldn’t have been painting. I thought of telling him so and stopped myself. “Really, I’m fine” he said, reading my mind. His nose was a furious red button in the middle of a flushed and splotchy face. I tried not to frown. He certainly didn’t look or sound ok but I decided to leave the issue alone for the moment despite my better judgment.

After a few moments, he headed back in and continued painting. I sat on the couch, took out my notes, and flipped open the laptop. More coughing and snorting echoed from the other room. “You sure you’re ok?” I called. No answer. Then, a head poked out of his bedroom. “Fine!”, he said, grinning and dropping out of sight as quickly as he’d appeared. Moments later, he began punctuating the afternoon with the sounds of bad business. “Bronchitis”, I thought and wouldn’t say. I bit my tongue and kept typing.

Somewhere between the misery and the empathy, I realized that he was my friend – officially... whatever the hell that means. I let the idea make me as uncomfortable as it dared before settling back to my notes and such. I wanted to say something and felt like maybe I should. But what to say?

I walked over and leaned against the door frame to his bedroom. “Hello”, he said, not taking his eyes off the wall.

“Dinner?”

He paused. “Eh, sure. Sure. Let me get some… things in order here and… er yes – just a minute. I want to finish this. What’d you have in mind?”

I shrugged. “The Pub? We can always figure it out from there.”

“That sounds fine – just let me do this in here and…”

“I’ll be in the living room.”

“That fine.” He went back to painting.

I went back to the couch feeling better having said what needed to be said.

Episode III: Notice

“If the universe is indeed spatially infinite, or if there are infinitely many universes, there would probably be some large regions somewhere that started out in a smooth and uniform manner... At first sight this might seem very improbable, because such smooth regions would be heavily outnumbered by chaotic and irregular regions. However, suppose that only in the smooth regions were galaxies and stars formed and were conditions right for the development of complicated self-replicating organisms like ourselves who were capable of asking the question: Why is the universe so smooth? This is an example of the application of what is known as the anthropic principle, which can be paraphrased as ‘We see the universe the way it is because we exist.”

--Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time

I walked in and was greeted by a surprising smell of food. Setting my things in their usual place, I took a seat and waited for him to come over. The Writer was in the kitchen managing a series of boiling, simmering, pots and pans.

Without question, I was curious as all hell. There’d never been cooking of any kind before. For that matter, there’d never really been anything in the apartment that could even constitute a meal if either of us had a desire to cook. I’d raided the fridge with and without permission more than a few times, never finding much more than black olives and fruit flavored liqueur. Eating had always meant eating out.

Now, he stirred and seasoned mysterious whatnots just outside of my field of vision. Something like nervousness started in to gnawing on me.

“I was inspired by your comments last night”

“My comments?”

He nodded vigorously. “This morning, I went shopping and such. Feel free to inspect the fridge.” Intrigued, I walked over to the fridge and looked inside.

It was full. I’ll say that much. No longer would the olives be lonely. Not a single empty space had been spared the burden of his newly acquired comestibles. Looking near the top shelf, I noticed a rather large tub of radishes. I turned to look at him.

“Radishes”?

“Oh yeah. Uh huh. Yeah. They’re tasty!” He was excited. About radishes. He was also making lunch and, given that I was a guest in his house, I let a perfectly good “Peter Rabbit” insult die behind my teeth.

Radishes are awful.

He harbored the same disgust for the lima beans I’d loaded up on a few nights prior at The Restaurant. In the end, however, we agreed on olives and alcohol, which is no small feat. I stifled my radish-hate for the sake of peace.

* * * * *

It was delicious… whatever it was. I’m not sure if the dish had a proper name and never really bothered to ask. I didn’t care. My mouth was full of tastiness.

There was eggplant and some kind of mushroom and a bit of garlic in this red sauce of his. There was also something crunchy and familiar that I couldn’t quite identify. I kept eating anyway.

“BlahBlahBlah onions.” I looked up, curious. Had he been talking?

“I forgot about the onions.” I noticed he sounded a little worried. And he was looking directly at me. I smiled, forking more tasty into my face. It was a good thing he’d forgotten them. I’m allergic to onions.

“Groob fing”, I said through a mouthful of food. I swallowed. “I’m allergic to onions.” I lifted another huge forkful of delicious into my mouth. This stuff was marvelous!

“I know. I forgot that you were allergic.” He jabbed a finger at my meal. “There are onions in there.”

I was already halfway done. Onions, especially raw onions, give me the worst gas imaginable. Suffice it to say, I’ve made myself and others vomit from the smell. Along with the noxious fumes comes terrible stomach cramps and, at times, mild confusion. I eyed my plate lustily, suspiciously. The facts were irrefutable. My choice was clear. Sighing with regret, I wolfed the rest of the meal down. It was delicious.

Later, on the way to my mom’s place, I was forced to drive about 75 mph with both windows down. I could still taste the onions.

* * * * *

Special thanks to Karen, who will likely never read this until I get around to fixing her internet connection. Likewise thanks to Richard, who, love it or hate it, will certainly read this more than once .They’ve both independently encouraged me to reach back over twenty years to deliver a simple “Thank You” that was long overdue.

The Writer: Grace

Grace

We'd more or less defaulted to hanging out over the past few weeks. I’d come home and write at the pub for a few hours before making or getting the call that’d send me down the road to his place. I learned after the first visit to eat before I arrived – unless you counted black olives and iced tea, there was no food to be had at his place. We got by most night on beer and baseball. And, most nights, that was more than enough.

Commentators barked through the speakers in his living room, calling up useless stats and facts to fill the time between pitches. I was having a beer and watching the game, having taken care of most of my work at the pub earlier that evening. He was either reading or writing at that point. I couldn’t tell which.

“You should get your hands on a laptop”.

I pulled myself away from the ballgame for a moment and cast a curious glance in his direction.

I’d been writing everything by hand everyday for weeks. My portfolio was taut with piles of papers and post-its. A machine would be a great help. His laptop was big and new and really shiny. I’d been admiring it since I’d first come over. He sat in his oversized chair, hunched over his laptop, the backlit monitor highlighting his face with its electric blue glow.

I shifted uncomfortably. There was no way I could afford a laptop – not anytime soon anyway. For reasons I can’t quite articulate, I didn’t want to give the impression that I couldn’t afford such a thing. So I sat up a bit straighter, framing a casual response that wouldn’t give me away. “Eh. Laptops cost money.” I paused then added, “I should have one by the end of the year.” He continued typing.

Sipping my beer, I spied a smaller, slightly beaten laptop by his feet. “You have two?” I asked in mock aggravation.

He shrugged. “Eh.”

He kept typing and I returned to the ballgame, now thinking about getting my hands on a laptop. It wouldn’t be entirely out of my range – I’d only have to save for a bit before I’d be able to nab a refurbished so-and-so from Dell. That’s about as far as I got with my thinking before Varitek stepped up to the plate and I let myself forget about it. Sox now, laptop later.

A few moments later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lift the smaller machine from the floor. He messed with it a bit before holding it out to me, waiting for me to look over at him. “Do me a favor and turn this on?” I blinked. He gave me the password.

It was a word I am very familiar with and I thought it a hell of a coincidence that he had a connection to the same word. Instead of making a comment, I did as I was told, powering up the machine, my fingers at the ready to enter the password. I had read a few things of his before and figured he wanted to show me something he’d written. Before long, the log-in screen flashed on.

The username read, “Andrew”

Well now. That was more than a little obvious. I looked over at him, unsure of what I wanted to say or ask, compelled nonetheless to say or ask it. I managed a “Huh?”, feeling as if I’d missed something important.

“Hold on to that for me, would you?” he asked, not looking up from his laptop. I frowned a bit, nervous and a little suspicious, unsure of what was happening. I didn’t want to assume that he was giving the damn thing to me but I wanted to be clear on where I stood. I couldn’t take his laptop.

“I can’t take your laptop”, I said.

“That’s right," he said. "You can’t.” I cocked an eyebrow. He smiled a little at this and half-gestured toward the laptop. “Just... hold on to it for a little while.” I stopped talking and punched in the password and the screen blinked to life.

“I nuked the hard drive and reinstalled some things”. At least that’s what I think he said. I hardly heard him, having already begun poking around. The thing had been stripped bare. Only the most essential whatnots remained on the PC. I stopped short of fantasizing about how I could use the thing, figuring there’d be some kind of hitch or catch that’d explain this whole scene. I swallowed once, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But nothing happened. Telling myself that it wouldn’t hurt to look it over, I kept probing. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad little machine.

After a bit, I examined the machine’s exterior. “It’s dinged and banged up in places”, he said, sounding somewhat apologetic. It was a little abused but I could care less about that. It worked fine enough. I looked up in time to see him jab a finger at a little piece of plastic jutting out from the side.

“I haven’t been able to fix that”.

A plastic cover for one of the card slots was jammed. I played with it for about a minute before my fingers fixed it automatically. It was at once intentional and accidental. “There”, I said. “All fixed”.

He blinked. I smiled. “It’s sort of my thing”, I said, bragging a little. But it was useless. He’d already gone back to typing. Cracking my knuckles dramatically, I continued exploring the machine, acquainting myself, satisfying a deep nerd-itch that hadn’t been scratched in a good long while.

I wanted to give it back with a polite ‘Thanks but no thanks’ but I couldn’t. I kept thinking of how useful it would be – I really did need the machine to get a number of things done. And, albeit admittedly to a lesser extent, I didn’t want to insult him. He was being nice and I was honestly grateful. But I had a hard time being gracious when it came to complements and favors. I knew that. So, this time, with a fair amount of effort, I left there matter there.

“Thank you”, I said. And that’s all I said.

This time, he looked up smiling warmly. “You’re welcome”.

The Writer: Grit

Grit

Author’s note: Some things have changed since I began writing this post. Some haven’t. For the purpose of staying true to my perspective at the time, I’ve not updated or otherwise edited this particular post. My thoughts and feeling seem to change every 5 min or so over the course of the last little while – that much is true. However, for better or worse, this is exactly how I felt at the time that I began scribbling. This is me getting it all off my chest…

“In the theory of relativity, there is no unique absolute time, but instead each individual has his own personal measure of time that depends on where he is and how he is moving”

--Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time

Day 1

When I was little and got sore or uncomfortable, I’d find myself holding awkward positions; holding my hand in the air, standing on one leg, holding my jaw open, often in public for the sake of temporary relief. I’d only become self-conscious of it when someone would ask “What’s wrong?” or “Why are you doing that?”

Sometimes I’d tell them, sometimes not, but, each time, I’d stop doing whatever it was that was making me feel better. I’d rather be hurt than weird.

These days, I’m hanging out with my friends less and for less amounts of time for that very reason. I don’t pick up my phone or make many calls for that same reason. I’d just rather be alone. And, to be sure, it’s a hard thing to commit to but I’m getting there, bit by bit. And I don’t feel the least bit angry or bitter about it. It’ll work out in the end.

I’ll be honest – it’s hard than I imagined it would be but I don’t really feel like I have much of a choice in the matter. I won’t ever live through this kind of pain again. I’ve learned in the past month or so that people can really only hurt you if you allow them within firing range. True, that’s the only way anyone will ever love you as well but I don’t honestly believe it’s worth the risk. Sure, it’s cliché. Sure, I shouldn’t be afraid to put myself out there. But it makes practical sense – risk nothing, lose nothing.

I don’t feel like I’m short-changing myself or missing out on anything. Life’s lessons are different for everyone and I’m learning how to be on my own. And I’ve discovered that I can do so with little to no passion. Extending trust no matter how trustworthy someone shows themselves to be, no matter how much I love them, gets me hurt and hurt bad every single time. There isn’t one person I’ve ever let in that hasn’t betrayed me in some way. This last hit in particular has made a Lazarus out of me and I won’t risk another blow. Ever.

Everyone leaves. That’s the hardest and most valuable lesson I’ve learned and, arguably, I should have learned years and years ago. My best friend hurt me more deeply than I’ve ever been hurt in my life – worse than my dad leaving, worse than when I believed my mom was dying, worse than all the evil my cousin has ever done, worse than being called “nigger” and excluded from ball games. I feel as if I’m being punished for something I had absolutely no control over. I understand that I can’t change what happened. That’s ok. My goal is to make sure that it never happen again.

Let me be clear. I don’t recommend this course of action. It’s only really satisfying in one way, offers only a partial guarantee of safety and, surprise, it’s lonely as hell. Likely I’ll never figure out how to alchemize loneliness into happiness. But, after an eternity of sleepless sickness, loneliness isn’t a difficult choice. I’ll take “might be safe” over “won’t be safe” any day. Given that, it seems like the only choice. I’ve got to try.

Enter The Writer.

I honestly have no explanation for this guy. He’s not been let in, to be sure, but I can grasp why I don’t push him away. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’s a complete stranger and is fundamentally incapable of hurting me. What’s more, he trusts me without any real good reason.

Drew: I could have easily murdered you by now! I could have been wearing your intestines as a turban! I could have –
Writer: [patiently] If you were going to do anything to me, you would have done so by now.
Drew: Not if I were a brilliant, diabolical sociopath!
Writer: Oh! [laughing] is that what you are?
Drew: [wildly] You never know, man! Cat vs. Mouse, Predator vs. Prey – maybe this is the only way I can get off!
Writer: [laughing and motioning Drew indoors] After you, Dr. Lecter.

Granted, all this pulling away and shoring up will likely come with consequences. Frankly, I don’t much care about them. I’ve been choking on fear for weeks and weeks – can’t listen to the radio, can hardly stand to be in one place for long, can’t stop feeling awful and guilty. I was intentionally used by the person I loved most in the world and then discarded. Nothing has ever felt worse than that. I don’t even have the satisfaction of knowing what actually happened.

Let the consequences come. I’m ready. In times of trouble, my buddy Sean would say “Something will happen”. That about sums up how I feel about whatever consequences may be waiting for me on the other side of this. For now, I’ll just keep holding this pose until the pain goes away. I’m not afraid.

Something will happen.

* * * * *

Day 2

Something finally happened.

Sheriff Bart had just saved the day. Outside, the sun hung low, a bright red-orange fever sore on the horizon. I sat there feeling fearless. For weeks, I’d managed to keep myself together. But then, for whatever reason, I lost it somewhere between Blazing Saddles and 3:10 to Yuma.

I sat there bawling my eyes out, all my defenses completely down. I had nothing left to fight with. Through a watery blur of tears, I saw The Writer turn off the television and tuck his feet under himself. He looked at me with carefully measured concern.

I knew it was coming as soon as he clicked off the TV. I completely broke down and started blubbering and babbling incoherently. Hardly anything I said made any sense at all and I couldn’t bring myself up enough to just sit there and declare I was ok, that we should just continue on with the movie. I couldn’t shut my mouth. Out came the nonsense and the tears, full-force. I was f’n embarrassed.

Ironically, just minutes before this shame-fest, I was laughing my ass off, rocking back and forth on the couch and holding my sides. There wasn’t much of a break between that and the helpless rambling. I just broke down out of nowhere – made me feel sort of insane, really.

If I had a tail, it would have been between my legs.

I felt like the victim of some cruel joke, my emotions dangling nakedly at the whim of some bitter puppeteer. Even after it ended, after I was finally out of words, I felt shitty. I’d made a complete ass of myself and just wanted to leave. The word “mortified” comes to mind.

“You can go to bed” I said.

“Ok”.

He rose from his chair and disappeared behind his bedroom door. Exhausted, ashamed, and unable to make the walk home, I curled up on the couch feeling nauseas, helpless, and guilty.

I didn’t fall asleep for a long while.

The Writer – Interlude: A few Caveats

Forgive me while I think aloud for a bit. I don’t really get out much anymore.
-C.B. Peterson, If It Takes All Night

No doubt most of you readers have gathered that the two previous posts concern recent difficult events (one in particular which I won’t get into here) and my attempt to resolve things in the aftermath. To be perfectly honest, I can’t say if I’m quite ok or even on my way to being ok. It’s much too early to tell. We’ll see what happens.

Thus far, a lot of things have gone unsaid about the previous posts – the above included – and, I’ll admit, I was being somewhat intentionally ambiguous for my own reasons. After fielding a number of questions from my live and “elsewhere live” (read: digital) readers, I’ve decided to throw up some caveats and explanations.

Feel free to skip this one if you like.

“The Writer” was initially intended to be one gigantic post. After a few days of writing, I realized how large it was going to be and decided to break it up into five parts so as to make it manageable to read. All told, had it all been lumped together, it would have been the equivalent of a 25+ page post. Parsing it out just made sense.

The first two – “One Beer” and “Gumption” – were the easiest to write. I only wrote, as The Writer put it, “exactly what happened”. Two of the three yet to come –“ Grit” & “Grace” were much more challenging. They’re more about how I feel and the day to day impact it’s having on my relationships with friends and how I view myself as a consequence of those relationship. They were more difficult to pen insomuch as I wasn’t sure how much to reveal and, that established, how to deliver that revelation honestly. “Grit” in particular was the most difficult to settle into and finish. For two weeks, I debated whether or not to post it, finally deciding that I’d never be rid of it unless I went ahead and posted it. It’ll go up later this week once I’ve given it a final once over.

The final post, “Favor” was tricky in its own way. Suffice it to say that it’s a story that I feel typifies a standard night out with me from my own perspective. The hardest part about writing it was keeping all the raw, sad-bastard emotion out of it. It’s by far the shortest of all and, dare I say, the most readable.

These events are the primary focus of the “now” of my life whether I like it or not and I felt I wouldn’t be able to write much else until I’d gotten through these posts. I don’t have the luxury of walking away. And, while this isn’t exactly an alternative to drinking, it’s certainly keeps me from doing those things that I shouldn’t do. So there it is.

[sipping beer]

Now about “The Writer”.

He’s a professional author, adventure traveler, and educator born right here in CT. He teaches public school during the school year and trots the globe during the summer months. I met The Writer on, quite literally, one of the worst nights of my life and, quite against my will, he unwittingly helped me take my mind off things for a few hours. To my knowledge, he isn’t some brand of amateur therapist or guru. He is, however, a friend – a somewhat unconventional friend, to be sure, but a friend, nonetheless. For the majority of the last 39 days, I’ve spent a fair amount of my free time with him, talking, writing, and talking about writing. Mostly, though, we spend much of the time eating, knocking back beers, and watching baseball. He’s good like that and so am I.


Random Whatnots:

*He’s fluent in six [6] languages; English, Spanish, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Dutch.
*I’ve spent the better part of my life wrapping my mind around English

*He’s offended by gratuitous profanity.
*I sincerely enjoy swearing and do it as often as is appropriate.
F**k has no substitute. Check the thesaurus.

*He’s a fan of Bill O’Reily
*I’m imbued with the faculties of reason and logic

*He sort of looks like that guy from The Commish
*I favor famed golf legend Calvin Pete

Before One Beer went up, I let him have a look at it and asked if I had his permission to post, given that he was one of the subjects. He answered, “You didn’t use my name and it’s factually accurate – it is what actually happened”. I told him that I hadn’t intended not to use his name. It’d just happened. By that point “Gumption”, “Grit”, and “Grace” were all in some stage of draft form and, after a quick review of the drafts, I noticed I hadn’t used his name in those posts either. As it stands now, per my trend and his request, he’ll remain anonymous.

I’ve been writing during the majority of my waking hours for the past 39 days. It has been, at times, both cathartic and somewhat alarming. Nevertheless, once I realized how long I’d been writing (around Day 36) I endeavored to continue up and through the night of the 40^th consecutive day (5/15/08). Up next is “Grit”, a post that’s been a long time coming.

Thanks for reading.

D

The Writer: Gumption

Gumption

I’d called on Sunday and hung up without leaving a message, afraid I’d misremembered the previous evening. “Feel free to stop over”, he’d said. “Give a call”, he’d said. It had been a great night, probably all the more because it was so unexpected. In the end, though, I decided that the memory of that night was all I really needed. I wasn’t all that interested in friends. I would have said thank you if there were a way to do so without coming off as desperate or dramatic. There wasn’t so I left it alone.

I ended up running into him the following Tuesday at the pub. He was grading papers at a table by the window and, without looking up from his work, stuck his hand out when I walked by. “Let’s go some place”, he said. We ended up at a bar filled with Portuguese soccer enthusiasts in the middle of the city. He ordered everything in perfect Portuguese. I tried strange looking olives and liked them. A man tried talking with me at the urinal, asking me how I liked the place. His English was awful. I shrugged.

Nights like that one were slowly becoming a regular occurrence. Since that One Beer, I’d been running into The Writer with increasing frequency. He’d arrive out of nowhere, clean, pressed, and smiling, smelling like Irish Spring. I’d burp loudly and adjust myself. And just like that, we were out again.

Tonight, it happened like always. I crossed the street, thirsty as usual, burdened with pens and notebooks. I went to drop my things off at my favorite table before grabbing a beer when I noticed someone had beaten me to the punch. A grade book and laptop lay where my things should have been. Before I could get all frustrated and such, I spied a jacket hanging on the back of the chair. “This guy”, I muttered, smiling in spite of myself. Writing accoutrements in hand, I sauntered up to the bar to greet the offender.

“You’re in my seat”, I said, trying to sound dry and bitter, failing at both.

He turned deliberately on his heels, hand extended, smiling politely. We shook hands and parted amicably; he to my table and I to a lesser table. I smiled to myself, fishing out my pen, warmed a bit by the friendly transaction. I stole a glance over at My Table in time to see that the writer had already dug in, typing furiously. Still smiling, I set to work.

* * * * *

I couldn’t write. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d been staring at a mostly blank page for the better part of an hour, willing my pen to move with no success. Figuring I was just a little tense, I drained a beer and took a short break only to come back to the same stubborn blank page. It was no use. There were only two seats in this place at which I felt comfortable writing. The Writer was in my choice spot – My Seat. My backup seat, a space at a corner of the bar, was occupied by Some Dude and His Friends. And neither seat showed any sign that it’d be cleared anytime soon. I sat there, grumpy and very much put out. Hell, I’d been paying rent on both seats since August! There wasn’t much I could about it other than brood and swear under my breath. I did just that while drawing goofy pictures and glaring longingly at my stolen seats.

Some Dude eventually got up and walked out with His Friends. Bonus! I hurriedly scooped up my things in a great double arm full and strode over to the bar, eager to get some writing done. Inspiration tickled at the back of my brain as I threw my whatnots onto the bar, helter-skelter. Relieved, I fished my pen from my pocket, hunched over the paper, and furrowed my brow accordingly.

Just as the juices were starting to flow, the barkeep shut me down with casual brutality. “I’m pretty sure they’re coming right back”, she said with limited sympathy. “They’ve just gone out for a smoke”. She said all this with a smile, the terrible undulations of her ample cleavage demanding attention and compliance. I listened to the bosoms, gathering up my things, preparing to slink back to nowhere.

I was genuinely disappointed. Writing was what it did. It was the dam I’d built against the waves of awful badness. The pain threw everything out of balance. All of my emotions have been overblown and exaggerated as of late. I knew I was overreacting. Any other time, I would have just moved without complaint. But tonight, this wasn’t just a seat change. This was exile. Sure enough, bitter waves of consternation began announcing themselves the minute I shoved my pen into my pocket. And I knew that the familiar sting of tears wouldn’t be far behind. I actually laughed at how pathetic I was, breaking down over something as small as a seat at the bar. Telling myself it didn’t matter, knowing that it really did, I bit my lip and headed off.

Without looking up, The Writer casually gestured toward an empty seat at My Table. I raised an eyebrow. He continued typing. I hesitated. He would not gesture again. Wary for reasons yet unknown, I ambled over and deposited my things in the space he’d cleared for me. I sputtered a quick “thanks” while I organized my stuff for the third time that evening, fumbling my dictionary in the process.

He never looked up.

The horizon bruised to a deep bloody purple. Lights came on. Birds quit the sky. The bar filled up with familiars. I sat there as evening crept in on cat’s paws, my heels dug in deep and desperately, ignorant of the world. Writing came easy and we worked in comfortable silence.

An hour or so passed before my hand cramped up and my throat went dry. I let the pen drop and waved for another beer. The Writer soldiered on, pausing only to narrow his eyes and wriggle his fingers.

As I looked over at him, I realized why I’d been wary of sitting down. Ostensibly, I didn’t want to be bothered with interruptions. It was hard enough writing as it was without having to contend with questions and anecdotes and random musings. For me, writing is private time. Nothing but nothing killed the mood quite like curious onlookers hovering and asking questions that don’t have answers.

The real truth was much simpler. I was honestly afraid that we might actually become friends or even were friends already. All this laughing and hanging out was all well and good but, well it was making me nervous as hell. As cheesy and cliché as it may have been, I couldn’t really trust anyone any more. That went double went for random strangers met over beers in local pubs. New friendships would not augur well given my current outlook. But, even though I was sure that I wasn’t willing to make room for anyone else, here I was paling around with this guy.

Never once had he ever asked anything of me. My being there seemed to be enough. Worst of all, he was genuinely nice for the sake of being nice. And that made me genuinely suspicious of him. I realized how deep the hurt went and felt myself dim a little. The last thing I needed was something else to be afraid of.

If he had any idea what I was thinking, he did not let on. My beer arrived. He showed no sign of slowing or stopping. I decided to let him be, choosing instead to watch the ball game until he finished.

It didn’t take him long to notice that I’d stopped working. He looked over the top of his glasses and I pretended not to notice, figuring he’d dip his nose back toward the keyboard for another hour or so. But he was finished. The beetle-click sound of his typing came to an end just a few moments later. He smiled broadly, closing the laptop and adjusting his glasses. A final bandage of sunset stained the evening horizon before giving way to the first tentative blinks of starlight. “So”, he said, wriggling a bit in his seat. I couldn’t help but smile back. Sure, I was nervous and scared as hell but so be it. I’d deal with that at another time.

Beers arrived. Laughter ensued. The laptop remained closed.

The Writer: One Beer

One Beer

Chances were pretty good that I’d being spending that Friday night by my lonesome whether I liked it or not. My main concern was lasting the night in one piece. A number of awfuls had gone down, wearing away at everything, compromising my durability. I just wanted a bit of company.

Downshifting as I neared my exit, I started in guessing at what could work for plans. Nothing - absolutely nothing - came to mind. At the stop sign, I scrolled through the list of names on my phone for the umpteenth time that afternoon, hoping for some sort of sign or clue and got neither. I snapped the phone closed and grimaced a bit before forcing a smile. Somehow, tonight would be just fine. I’d make sure of it. Determined, I pulled past the stop sign, hooked a left, and darted through a yellow light pushing 40 mph on the last quarter mile of road before my apartment. I nearly scrolled through my phone again then decided against it, remembering the result of a few min prior. The Mustang coasted smoothly into the driveway. With the pony in park, I gathered my stuff and prepared to head inside to work on my night. But I didn’t move.

I sat in the car, terrified, unsure of what to do next. For a minute, I was able to detach myself from the reality of it all and view my circumstance somewhat objectively. I was strangely fascinated by the pure fear I felt when I thought about what would become of my evening. Usually, I’d toss myself to the wind and let the night unfold as it would. Tonight, however, I was just plain scared. I felt sore and sick and confused all at once. John Nowacki stuttered through the final bits of All Things Considered as I held the wheel and prayed for something, anything, to pull me out of this. No answer came.

After a time, I forced myself to cut the engine, grab my things, step out of the car, and start walking. I had no idea where I was headed or what would become of my night. Still I walked, feeling stupid and somewhat childish, blinking at the sidewalk and sweating nervously. As I neared the corner, I looked up and spied the pub, likely the absolute last place I needed to be on a lonely Friday night. It sat patiently across the road from my apartment, its green door hanging open like a lion’s mouth. I thought briefly of heading over then quickly talked myself out of it. What would happen once I was done with my beer? What would happen if I ran out of money? What then? Where would I go once I was broke and no good to drive? Back to the apartment? I didn’t have it in me to drink or get drunk and face myself alone. Not tonight.

Such was my life. I didn’t know how to get well so I drank. I drank until I was sick, my jaw hanging loose and senseless, and then drank more. I still don’t have the faintest idea how to get well. I still drink. I’m still awake before the sun is warm and still fall down nightly into fitful colorless unconsciousness. It was predictable and honest. Before Friday, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to stop.

But even drinking would not do tonight.

I almost cried. I felt utterly helpless and completely alone in the world. Part of me just wanted to go back to the room and punish myself for being such a coward, for not being able to manage something as simple as navigating a Friday night on my own. But I couldn’t even do that. I was all but totally immobilized by a frustrating and unsolvable “it”. I stood on the corner, rooted in the concrete, ashamed of myself.

I decided to go somewhere inside my apartment. The pub was just plain a terrible idea. I’d make a giant fool of myself, reaching out to strangers and begging for connection. To save myself, I reached in my pocket, fished out my keys and started toward the door. Inside, I set my things down on my bed and looked around the room. I felt tears stinging at my eyes again and fought them back, biting my lip and sucking in a lung full of air. I had done all there was to do. I sat on my bed and let thoughts come as they may.

Sitting there with the door locked, I stopped fighting, letting all the awful things I thought and felt have their way, making myself nauseous with worry. I lay down, shoes on, messenger bag still over my shoulders, and curled up as tightly as I could, squeezing my eyes closed. I cried then, unable to do much else. Sounds from the nearby pub drifted through the window. I rolled over and reached for a pillow.

“One beer.”

I thought about those two words for maybe a tenth of a second before grabbing my pen and notebook and running out toward the pub. I shut off thinking, ignoring all the alarms and panicky alternatives that my fears offered and resolved to walk on in. There was more naked truth in that thought than I’d experienced in a good long while and it pulled me toward the pub without promises. “One beer” was all that thought offered. Come hell or high water, I was going in. I was going to sit the fuck down. And I was going to have my one beer.

* * * * *

As a rule, I am ignored at the pub. A few regulars will come over on occasion and strike up conversation. For the most part, though, the evening will carry on around me as though I weren’t there. Translation: effortless anonymity, decent beer, and an unobstructed view of the Red Sox (should they happen to be on) were all waiting for me within 10 yards of my front door. It was my writers’ paradise.

Writing obscures me all the more. The same people who would occasionally approach me still do so, but not once would any one of them ever acknowledge the stacks of pages and books spread around me. And I did nothing to encourage them otherwise. I preferred it that way. There isn’t much else more frustrating than needless distractions.

“What are you writing?” is a death knell.

That night, I sipped my One Beer and made use of the bit of space I had on the bar in front of me to scribble in my notebook. I let the wave of ideas come, shutting of my interior editor and scratching out ideas as quickly as I could, misspellings be damned. The feeling was inviting and more than mildly addictive. I wet my lips with a bit of my One Beer and plowed forward. So far as I was concerned, there was only me and my notebook. And, as long as it stayed that way, I’d be insulated against the loneliness. I started to feel a little better and let myself get carried away. I could have written all night.

But it wouldn’t be so. Hardly 15 min after I’d began, the unmistakable knell sounded, coming in the form of a shout, as if he’d been trying to get my attention for some time.

“What is that?”

I looked up from my notebook toward the interruption, bracing myself.

He was short. And bald. And, apparently, curious as hell. Just seconds prior, he was just another shmoe harmlessly adding to the savage din of a Friday night pub. And now here he was, pestering me, his useless question dangling like a poisoned carrot. He’d swiveled in his chair while I was sizing him up and was now facing me directly, smiling politely, much too close to be completely ignored.

I smiled back, bristling beneath the surface. I’d finally gotten comfortable with my One Beer and notebook and was in no mood to talk with anyone, let alone a stranger. This guy was about to ruin everything. I decided right away to put him off with some good ol’ fashioned nonchalance.

Shrugging indifferently, I offered “It’s a short story that’s gotten a bit out of hand”. I kept my eyes on the notebook, determined to stay in the zone. I wagged my pen in front of my chest, hoping he’d get the hint.

“ I’ve answered your question, chum. Be a pal and let a guy get back to business.”

“Ah”, he returned, nodding knowingly. Before I had much chance to do anything else, he reached into his pocket and produced a card. “I’m a travel author”.

Imagine that. I had been interrupted by a fellow writer, probably the one person in the whole place who may have understood just how important it was that I be left alone right then.

“Is that fiction or non-fiction?”

I barely answered.

“I’m heading to Pakistan this summer.”

Sure you are.

“How long have you been writing?”

Go to hell.

“Do you find it’s more difficult to write fiction than non-fiction? I’ve only ever written non-fiction myself. I’d imagine fiction would be much easier. You have the power to do whatever you want. I don’t have that kind of flexibility. I can only write about what actually happened.”

You’re kidding me.

“I come here to write as well! That seat over there by the window is perfect.”

It quickly became clear that he had no interest in leaving me alone. And, honestly, I wasn’t doing much at all to get across to him that I’d rather be ignored for a while. I found myself dropping my guard, engaging him more and more. I wasn’t so much annoyed as I was tired and suspicious. More than either of those, however, I was honestly interested. I angled towards him, telling myself it couldn’t hurt to talk to him for a bit. My notebook wasn’t going anywhere.

Still a bit put off but certainly intrigued, I decided to see where this would end up. And I wouldn’t realize until much later how much that simple admission of interest had loosened my tie. We talked. The night wore on. I laughed for the first time in weeks. My One Beer beside me getting warm, completely forgotten.

* * * * *

I heard that.

Proposition 317

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The Sinner Stance

As Ready As We'll Ever Be...

While a majority of U.S. voters say they would vote for a black presidential candidate, many people say the United States is still not likely to put an African-American in the Oval Office quite yet.

NPR.org, 12.18.06
-----------------------------------------------------

Although Barack Obama is different from previous African-American presidential candidates, it is still unclear if most Americans are ready to elect a black president, say two Duke University political scientists.

AScribe Newswire, 1.16.07
----------------------------------

"Is America ready for a black president?"

That's the question irrevocably tied to the Obama campaign. Are we ready to have an African-American at the helm? By now, I've heard more reasoned yes's and no's than I can number. The overwhelming majority can be summed up one of two way; "Yes, we've made enormous strides with regards to race relations in this country and a black president is a natural inevitability in that progression" or "No, America is stil lumbering in the infancy of understanding tolerance and diversity. We've not yet collectively reached the point where we can afford a minority candidate a viable opportunity for election to our highest office".

But just what does "ready" mean? I've yet to hear a single person specifically define the circumstances under which we would be qualified as "ready" for a black president. Yet everyone seems to be sure that it is or isn't "now". I, however, am not on either side of the issue because, frankly, I don't believe that readiness matters. At all.

America has NEVER been ready for African-American advancement.

Yet, despite this, we didn't sit around discussing when we as Americans would be ready to afford civil rights to blacks. In fact, when it came, America clearly was NOT ready for it. We had to march, and bleed, and riot, and die. We had to endure our children being bombed, beaten, lynched, and burned alive. We - and by we I mean those who had it in their hearts that this was a necessity, readiness be damned - had to suffer. And in the midst of that suffering, people in the business of using readiness as the sole reason to proceed were making it known that they would not be moved and that they would never be ready. Among the unready stood the likes of Alabama Gov. George Wallace shamelessly screaming "Segregation now, segregation tomorrow and segregation forever" in his inaugural speech, poisonous words meet with thunderous applause.

It was never the intention of the patriots who battled for civil rights to end racism. It was their intention to overcome it. It was their intention to achieve and progress in spite of it. Readiness was, nor shall it ever be, the issue.

The question of our readiness, however, is being treated as a valid means of qualifying a candidate - one specific candidate, in this case, Barack Obama. And, as I'm sure we're all aware, there are no shortage of people who would vote for Hillary Clinton that would have otherwise cast a vote in favor of Obama if they'd believed he had a chance of winning.

Only a handful of African-Americans have even won statewide office in the last decade. That's why Robert Ford, a black state senator from South Carolina who is an Obama fan, says he'll back Edwards or Hillary Clinton. "Obama would need 43% in some states of the white vote to win, and that's humanly impossible," Ford says. "We in the South don't believe America is ready to elect a black President."

Perry Bacon Jr., Time Magazine, 1.16.07

South Carolinian Senator Robert Ford's pseudo endorsement of Barack Obama does more harm than just about anything the opposition can muster. He disqualifies Barack Obama solely based on the color of his skin. What's more, it comes off as a perfectly valid disqualification - all because of the answer to that most asinine of questions, "Is America ready for a black president". Were readiness [or lack there of] not a consideration, I'm sure Senator Ford would have just voted for whomever he believed to be the most qualified. Instead, he forces himself to choose someone he has determined to be a lesser candidate - all due to a lack of faith.

The question is not only moot, it's dangerous as hell. It asks nothing of Obama save "What color is he?". It gives people bogus reason to discount him as a viable candidate - the majority of us would not vote for someone we believed had no chance of winning. And in the upcoming presidential election, that's what matter - the majority.

Is America ready for a black president? America is ready for and in dire need of a capable, qualified, leader - ancestry be damned. Senator Ford and others would do well to be true to themselves and the process by voting for whom they believe would be best instead of whom they believe to be popular.

By the way, Senator Ford:

----------------------------------
Seventy-two percent of white Americans and 61 percent of black Americans surveyed in a new CNN/Opinion Research Corp. poll released Monday say the nation is ready for a black commander in chief.

CNN.com, 1.21.08


Make no mistake. We're as ready as we'll ever be. See you all on election day.


[Obama '08]