I asked him, "Like what?"
"You're not greedy. And you don't plot or scheme, and you don't go all slutty or manipulative if you don't get what you want."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything, but I've been floating ever since.
DeeDee
To: Roger Thorpe c/o: Staples
Roger, Me again. This morning I had a crown replaced ($$$!), and throughout the experience I read your Glove Pond. Bethany gave me a photocopy of your manuscript. I must admit, Roger, it's too highbrow for me-all the talk about literature-out of my league. How do you have the patience to write? Me-I'm not calm enough to read fiction. I think you have to be in the right state of mind, and I haven't been there since I was fourteen. I can read magazines and newspapers and other factual stuff. I'm actually leaving library books about science all over the house. It's an obvious ploy to get Bethany interested in school, but it does work, especially the books I leave near the toilet. They always get thumbed through, and it gives us things to talk about besides reality TV and the past. There's this one book on the stars that's fascinating, and it got me onto Google, looking up all sorts of things. Do you have any idea how big the universe is, Roger? It's terrifying, and the only thing I can think of that might make it not terrifying is the possibility of life all over the place. I mean, if life was an accident on this one little planet in the middle of nowhere, then what's the point? I find it hard to believe that human beings are the crowning achievement of life on earth. Something better than us has to come along. Maybe someday there'll be a flower the size of Colorado-or a marine organism that occupies the entire Indian Ocean massive super creatures that use telepathy to speak with other creatures in other galaxies!
Here's my final thought: how come there are only a tiny number of planets orbiting the sun? If you were to take all the planets and squish them into a ball, it'd still only be one-billionth the size of the sun. Brother, I mean, why not have no planets at all? If you're going to have planets, have a thousand of them for every star!
DD
ps: Can you stress the importance of education with Bethany? I'll sell the condo in a flash to pay for it, so don't let her plead poverty.
Thank you, Roger.
Glove Pond
"You weren't going to serve us dinner."
"That's not true."
"Do you have a surprise platter of cold cuts and Danish cheese concealed in the den? Or do I hear a rotisserie broiling Cornish game hens in the garage?"
"No need to be snarky about it."
"So you admit it!"
"We were going to feed you dinner."
"And that dinner would have been what ... pan
cakes?"
Some of the more brazen weevils were scampering across the counter and reboarding the mothership. "I was going to make crepes. "
"You what?" "Thin, perfectly shaped crepes-elegant yet substantial-filled with a marmalade reduction."
"You liar. You don't have any marmalade. I checked out your fridge. It might as well be abandoned in a vacant lot."
"I was going to borrow marmalade from our next-door neighbour. Last spring they borrowed all of our jams and jellies for a toast party, and they owe us. How was I to know the pancake mix was a haven for vermin?
Now my plans are dashed. Perhaps you could spot me a hundred dollars for Chinese food."
"You're nuts."
Like an elderly man dying in his sleep, the furnace suddenly stopped. The fridge stopped humming. No cars drove by the house. Kyle stared at Steve.
Steve said, "Think of Brittany and Gloria. They deserve something better than tap water for dinner, don't you think? Please, look into your heart and think of them."
Kyle considered this. "You manipulative old soak. Okay, whatever. This is a college town-they always have good takeout. Do you have a Yellow Pages?"
Steve walked to a side table, picked up the phone book and handed it to Kyle.
"Chinese or pizza?" asked Kyle.
"Chinese," said Steve. "You get more leftovers and they last longer." "Fine." Kyle ordered Chinese food and then joined Steve in the living room.
Steve stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. "Here come our ladies." Kyle looked up. "Brittany?" Brittany had been radically transformed through cosmetics and wardrobe. What had once been a prim, orderly face was now a voluptuous Hollywood mask, with carmine Cupid's bow lips, turquoise eye shadow a la Cleopatra, thick, juicy false eyelashes and skin as pale and flawless as a pre global warming Vermont ski slope winter mountain slope. Gloria had loaned her a platinum blonde wig of near drag-queen grandeur, one that might suitably have been worn to the launch of a Queen Mary voyage circa 1961. Her little black dress had been replaced with a strapless rouched ivory-coloured silk body-hugger-Marilyn Monroe being photographed for Life magazine. Within the gentle glow of a room lit mostly by unreplaced dead light bulbs, Brittany now crackled with movie star energy.
"Hello, Kyle."
"Whoa."
"Hello, Steve," Brittany said. "Are we eating soon?"
Gloria was behind Brittany. "Now this is a woman. Forget today's trampy little sluts walking around in dental floss and fabric scraps-a real woman has verve. A real woman leaves chaos in her wake."
Kyle said, "Brittany ... what are you doing?"
Steve interrupted: "Take that, Julie Christie! Take that Charlotte Rampling!" Take that, Natalie Wood! Take that, Sophia Loren! [Vema Lisi.) Angie Dickinson?]
Kyle turned to Steve. "Who on earth are you talking about?" He turned back to Brittany. "Brit, you look like a gold digger from a Cary Grant movie." He cupped his right hand to his ear: "Hey, I think there's a rich plutocrat in the kitchen who'll give you a fifty to visit the powder room."
"Thank you for supporting my new look, Kyle. And screw you. This is fun."
Steve wolf-whistled.
"Thank you, Steve." Brittany walked into the living room as Gloria plucked invisible dander from Brittany's shoulder. She sat on the sofa. "I needed a change-and I need a Scotch. Steve?"
"Coming right up."
Gloria asked for a Scotch as well. Kyle said, "Jesus,
do you people douche with Scotch? I can't believe you."
"Kyle, be quiet. We're talking about me, not you. And speaking of me, I'm sick of being me. I'm sick of my job and I'm sick of my point of view and I'm sick of the interior voice in my head that never really changes from one year to the next."
"You hear voices?" Gloria asked.
"You know what I mean, Gloria-we all have it that little voice that debates which bridge to take to get to work in the morning, the voice that narrates a book in your head when you're reading. And I'm just so sick of it! So tonight I'm Elizabeth Taylor."
"You look ravishing," said Gloria.
"Here's a Scotch."
"Thank you, Steve."
"Scotch, Kyle?"
"Brother. "
Kyle looked annoyed and Steve said, "Why so snippy? And besides, alcohol seems to be a big theme in your work. On page one of your new book, the main character's already hitting the bottle."
"What the hell-you read part of my new book? Is that where you were?" Brittany looked at Steve. "Steve-did you plunder Kyle's manuscript from his satchel and read part of it?"
Steve was caught.
Kyle shouted, "I can't believe this-you stole a copy of my first chapter?"
"Don't be testy," said Steve. "We're both writers. Is it wrong to want to share tips on craftsmanship with a peer?"
"How did you even know I had it with me?"
"I told him, Kyle."
"Why'd you do that?"
"How could it hurt? And you could use the advice of someone other than me." "I like your advice." "Have you ever wondered, Kyle, what sort of burden
your need for feedback puts on me? I have almost no free time, and when I do get some it's all totally sucked into your bottomless well of writer's neediness." She looked at her two hosts. "I tell you, there are chapters lying around the hou
se like autumn leaves. Everywhere. Always. On the couch. On the stove. On the toilet. In the car. On the Stairmaster. In the breakfast nook. On the floor-especially on the floor. You'd think we decorated our house with an electric fan and a Staples gift certificate." She turned to Gloria. "And all of these chapters are shingled with Post-it Notes, all of them highlighted in yellows and pinks and blues, and every little Post-it Note is asking me what I think or what I suggest."
Gloria thought, What's a Post-It Note?
"Fine," said Kyle.
There was a pause. They could all hear each other sipping their drinks as they watched passing car headlights zoom up the living-room walls, only to vanish on the ceiling. Kyle broke the silence. "So-Steve-seeing as you read it and all, what did you think?"
"I think there's Chinese food coming soon," said Steve.
"Good," said Gloria, making no effort to fetch plates
or cutlery.
"What about the book?" Kyle asked. "I !mow you've
read part of it."
Steve paused. What did he think of Kyle's book? All of the pop culture references had been totally lost on him, and with all of the technology it discussed, Steve had felt like he'd been reading a NASA manual on how to fix a lunar rover. However, "I do think you tapped into something universal," he said. "The not wanting to get out of bed aspect of the first chapter. The notion of no longer wanting to go on with life and wondering what possible benefit could come of decades and decades of life past one's prime when all of life's big strokes have been made, when one is left only with regrets and no options. That I liked-the sensation that grief is like a werewolf that moves into your house one day and never leaves, and every time you open a door or round a corner, it's there, lying in wait."
"Really?" said Kyle.
"Yes," said Steve.
"Huh."
"You see," said Brittany, "it's not so bad getting another opinion." "You're right," said Kyle. Everyone sipped, and then Brittany changed the subject. "In the closet I saw a football," she said. "Do you two have children?"
Although technically nothing was happening, the room came to a stop. Steve and Gloria darted eyes at each other. Gloria said, "Urn, yes. We have a lovely child."
"Yes," said Steve. "A lovely, lovely child. Just one." "How interesting," said Kyle. "Boy or girl?" Steve and Gloria made eye contact before Steve
answered, "A boy." "He's never mentioned on your book jacket flaps,"
said Brittany. The doorbell rang. "Dinner's here," said Steve.
Bethany
Roger; Unlike Brittany, I don't mind test-reading your book at all! In fact, Glove Pond is now officially a part of my life, and I'd like to share it with other people, but who ... Kyle? He'll never be the reading type. My other fellow Shtooples inmates? No way-this is too special. So that leaves my mom.
I wish I had something 1'd made that I wanted to keep special for myself, Roger. You're lucky-you have the book. My only writing class ever was a disaster. I chucked out almost everything the afternoon I returned home from the last one. Sheer disgust. Golden lining: at least my couple of years of toil at the community college allows me course credits if I go back to study nursing as a "mature student." Yes, I'm still thinking about it.
The one thing I did keep from my writing class was my essay on toast being buttered-"from the toast's point of view." I include it here in this envelope. Think of it as a fellow writer's inspiration to another fellow writer. Wait that last sentence came out wrong.
As they say in cheesy restaurants everywhere, Roger, "Enjoy!"
Bethany
Toast
I deserve better than to be forced to document my cruel fate at the hands of a pat of butter. What crime did I ever commit, except being crispy and golden brown on the outside-bearing the faintest bouquet of carbon-while being tender, fluffy and white, nay, cloudlike, on the inside?
And like I can't see the knife coming my way! If you wanted to scare me, it worked, and ... oh jeez ... it's not even butter, it's margarine. Oh dear God, it's not even margarine-it's a spread-house brand spread, bought from a Costco, at that. That's all I get in the end? Butter-like spread-type bulk purchased yellow goop? I don't even rate butter? Thanks. Thanks a lot. At least butter is a classy way to go. Even margarine has a certain Volvo cachet.
Well, that's life. During my childhood as a humble slice inside the loaf (four slices in from the front), I once had dreams. Maybe one day, as toast, I would bear an image of Jesus 01; if not Jesus, then NASCAR racing legend Dale Earnhardt or, failing that, Catherine Zeta-Jones. Instead, all I display is a golden brown toastiness distributed across my heated surface with about the same degree of randomness as craters on the moon, with a slightly darker browning in my midriff where I bowed slightly towards the toaster's equatorial grill.
I think it's actually mean to trick young bread slices into thinking that they, too, might one day harbour toast faces, let alone be sold on eBay for thousands of dollars and make a wacky news story that goes viral.
Life generally blows. I mean, don't get me wrong, there are far worse ways to go than as toast-croutons and stuffing spring to mind-as well as the worst fate of all: blue mould, followed by a few hasty twists of the bread bag's neck, then you're plunged into the trash and live in an anaerobic limbo until the year AD 327,406, when a glacier scours you out of what was once the local landfill. My fate is to be toast. I suppose that's a small blessing.
Wait-wait-it's almost here, the knife. It's almost ready to dock onto my super-sensitive spot in the dead centre of my-nmghhh . . . aughGHHH!
Oh!
That was
That was
Do it again.
Oh God, they never told us about this, back in the loaf. Jesus, I'm crumbling all over the place.
I don't care.
Mnmmmglmph!
Ahhhhh . ..
Warm, drizzling rivulets soak my being; molten, swirling, sun-coloured puddles drench my cracked, scabby and burnt skin-my death so near. Already I can sense teeth coming my way, and yet the fear is gone. I feel free! I feel dirty! I feel submissive! I feel ...
I feel .. .
I feel .. .
. . . the end.
c+
Bethany, I didn't totally feel like I was being buttered, like I really was the toast. As a writer; you have to empathize. At Thursday's workshop, I want you to listen to some of the other butterings that will be read aloud. They'll give you a better feel on how to connect with your protagonist. I think that, collectively, we will arrive at a satisfying creative solution.
Bethany
Roger, You've missed five days at work now. Why are you skipping work so much? Are you sick? I feel ridiculous leaving correspondence in your basement suite's mail slot, but I've got no intention of knocking on your door. Leaving you this note is the extent of my act of reaching out to you.
My theory is that you're not sick at all. I think you're sitting inside your place, getting hosed and cursing the universe, probably because you're mad at your ex-wife and her lawyer.
I think you're going through a bad patch, but I also think you'll be out of it soon, so I'm going to write this and stick it through your door and then not worry about you anymore. You're certainly not missing anything at work, but I did this one freaky thing you might find interesting-and of possible use to you as a novelist.
After going to visit Kyle's grandmother's grave, I got to thinking about death more than usual, and I figure that someday you'll write the words THE END and Glove Pond will be finished. That's got to be sort of like death, don't you think? And unlike real life, in a book, you know exactly when the end is going to happen.
And because you know when the end is coming, you'll maybe feel some sort of pressure near the end, like, Holy shit! This puppy's going to be finished in maybe five pages! No three pages! Augh! The end is near! The end is near!
And so here's my idea: I figure that the mental pressure of smashing into a book's end must squeeze something out of a writer. I
t must force them to cough up some sort of essential truth, because it's now or never.
With this in mind, I took the bus to the library and went into the fiction section and got a cart and chose a hundred novels at random from the shelves: potboilers, Nobel Prize winners, sci-fi, romance-everything. And I had a pile of coins and I went and photocopied the last two pages of each book and then I went to a coffee shop and read those hundred last pages looking for a common theme, and you know what? I found one. It's not in every book, but it's in most books. It's this: when a book ends, the characters are often moving either towards or away from a source of light literally-like carrying a candle into a dark room or running a red light at an intersection or opening curtains or falling into a well or-this list goes on. I circled all the bits about light, and there's no mistaking it.
The gum thief: a novel Page 10
