Chapter 12

12

November 15, 1982.

Jamie's 25th birthday.

I'm drunk in my hotel room when the telephone rings.

Indianapolis, Indiana. Book tour/poetry reading. My publicist wanted me to meet an up-and-coming writer, some guy named Tom, or Tim, or Tum. She made reservations for three at some horribly gaudy restaurant owned by some unpronounceably named chef. I showed up a half an hour late, staggering.

Knowing my propensity to miss these kinds of networking schmooze fests, the two had already finished their starters and their meals were on the way. It's ok. I wouldn't have eaten anyway. I order vodka, rocks, and an olive to assuage the hunger until tomorrow morning.

"Did you forget what day it is?" Jamie asks on the other end of the line.
"No, I didn't. It's your birthday." I must have failed in my attempt to control my slurs.
"Richard, it's 7:15. Are you drunk already?"
"I don't see why it should matter, but yes, I had an early dinner."
"When were you going to call?"
"Eventually."

I've grown weary of writerly conversation. This eager young man sitting across the table from me is yet another reason why. I could say he reminds me of a younger me, bright eyed, ready for international publishing fame, but then I'd be lying to you. His mouth is moving but I'm not listening to a word he's saying. I've heard it all before; allow me to recap.

Said writer is gratefully surprised at his fortune. His first novel has critics raving, although he thinks they all miss it's intention. His next novel will be more challenging, more focused, more determined in its purpose. Since his debut, he's read so-and-so, met what's-his-face, and been to here-and-there. Yippie. Then the inevitable questions fly at me. He wants writerly chitchat. He's a big fan of mine and has been for years. Do I ever feel under appreciated? Why do I think my last novel was such a bomb? What am I currently working on? I don't have the heart to tell him that I am currently working on burning all of my books in the middle of my living room and then sending a beautiful bullet into my skull.

"I'll be back on Tuesday," I reply. "We'll celebrate then."
"Promise me?"
"Sure, Jamie."

I need to go to the bathroom. The polite thing to do, of course, is to wait for a lull in the conversation and then graciously excuse myself from the table. I am rarely gracious anymore.

Alone in front of the urinal, I get the urge to run. I do not want to finish this horrific conversation, although my unfinished glass of vodka is reason enough to return. I'd hate to leave it there, treading water, alone at the table.

By the time the telephone rings I am back in my hotel room, finishing another glass of vodka.

"How's the novel coming along?"
"Just like all the rest."
"I miss you, Hun."
"Happy birthday, Jamie."

Hearing the click of disconnection, I let the receiver fall from my hand. It lands graciously on the bed. I don't bother to pick it up as the pulsating sounds of the dial tone slowly sing me to sleep.