Chapter 36

36

Bookends.

Pieces of your life get sandwiched between two defining moments in your own personal narrative.

On the left side of the mantle lies an ornate, wooden, Tuesday afternoon. It's a particularly breezy bookend, highlighted by an afternoon sun that's beginning to poke its head out from behind the clouds. I'm nestled into a hammock, sandwiched between two trees, about a mile and a half away from my home. It's not my hammock, per-say, but it is my hammock. I've been coming here for months now and have yet to run into its owner. Something tells me she's recently divorced and that the last of her three children have traveled off to college.

Lying face down on my chest is a copy of William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. I've been trying for months to not capture the man's artistic style, but simply resurrect a piece of him into my writing. How can one man say so much by writing so little? It's an attribute I envy immensely. Terse pieces of dialogue lie wrapped in short articulate passages. His characters breathe but do not bore. Yet, still my mind begins to wander.

Closing the book I lift myself up out of the hammock and begin my walk back home. Opening the door, I am greeted by the ringing of a telephone. Flinging the book onto my couch, I hustle to the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Richard...I've got great news."
"Really? What did they say?"
"They loved it."
"So...?"
"So, they want to publish your novel, Richard. You did it."

Flash forward through days of depression, weeks of exhilaration and biographies on the Civil War. Frantically entered into these tomes are the various meanderings of a washed up poet. Fifteen years printed into pages that harbor the memories of book tours, magazine interviews, royalty checks and love affairs. Two wooden frames supporting the weight and guilt of a man who has lost his way.

And then the telephone rings again.

"Richard, we need to talk."

He's caught me on one fucking horrible afternoon. I've been sitting here, staring at my typewriter since dawn. At noon I found myself frustrated enough to engage a nearby bottle of vodka. It's been days since I've left this room; days since I've seen the sun. Sandwiched between two empty bottles of alcohol is a faded memory of Jamie. Right now, I can't seem to remember her smell.

"Can't it wait, Sam? I'm pretty busy right now."
"No. This can't wait. Richard, the Rebecca just called. The publisher is starting to worry."
"About what?"
"Well, you in particular."
"Well, I'm fine, Sam."
"You're three months late on the manuscript and in case you haven't read the reviews about Express, they're not exactly sterling. This is cause for concern."

My chest tightens, so I light another cigarette. Inhale, exhale and cough into the recieving end of the telephone.

"You sound like shit, man."
"What does Rebecca want me to do about it? I've been working. I haven't left my house in weeks."
"Hiding from the world isn't going to...Look. Get out and do some fishing. Try to catch another Trout. Put down the bottle for a day or two."
"So this is what you’re calling about?"
"Not entirely. Jamie came by my office yesterday in tears."
"She talked to you?"
"She says you don't leave your office anymore, and when you do, you're dunk. It's not..."
"...Your fucking business. Or hers for that matter. You'll get a novel when I'm done with a novel, and the longer this conversation drags on the longer it's going to take for either to happen."
"I thought you were better than this, Richard."
"Shows what you know, Sam."

And coldly I hang up the phone. Picking up one of Jamie's bookends, I drink the last remaining bit of alcohol within. I need to quiet my mind and get to work. There are too many distractions. I've got to get back to writing.

But staring at the typewriter, I have nothing more to say. Fumbling across the keyboard, my fingers absentmindedly begin touching letters forming a single word upon the page. I look down and read out loud:

Bookends.