Chapter 52

52

All the experts say that you’re not supposed to write about these sorts of things.

- No one wants to read about that, Richard.
- Maybe you should edit that one out before we go to press.
- Did Hemmingway ever use that kind of language in his work?

No…he didn’t. But, in case they haven’t noticed, I’m not Ernest Hemmingway. I can only write the way that I write, and so far its been working well for me. If people want to read a Hemmingway novel then they should pick up a copy of The Old Man and The Sea. If they’ve wandered into the B section of their local bookstore looking for A Farewell To Arms then perhaps they should reconsider their dedication to the English language.

The chapter in question was written on a Sunday afternoon. The sky, as I recall, was a washed out sort of gray. It’s the sort of gray you see when a heavy rain saturates the sidewalk below your feet.

I wasn’t planning on writing that particular weekend. I had just finished a marathon spurt of writing during the week prior and wanted to give my head some time to refill with life experience before creating again. Inspiration, however, is an unplanned event and on this particular Sunday my thoughts were playing leapfrog across an extremely small stream of creativity running though a remote section of my mind.

So I found a tree. It was an oversized oaf of an aspen that literally called out my name.

“Richard, over here!”
“Over where?”
“Here! The balding aspen to your right.”

I joined the lonely middle-aged aspen and hunkered down beneath his leafless branches. As the only aspen surrounded by hundreds of pine, I couldn’t deny the old fellow his request for company. The pine have their needles and their cones to keep them entertained but the poor aspen was so bare that the birds weren’t even bothering him.

And I pulled out my pen. And I pulled out a small notebook that I tug around with me for just such inspired tree sitting situations and I began writing:

- I sit alone in a bookstore sandwiched between shelves of paperbacks with my knees tucked closely to my chest to stay out of aisle’s way.

Billions of words surround me like a Merriam-Websteresque fog enabling me to reach out and grab the word “mesmerize” before forcing it onto the page.

I am safe here in this haze, and if I tuck myself in tight enough no one will ever find me. At least…that was the original idea.

Perhaps the fog is clearing or I’m getting too old to tuck correctly, but suddenly I’m discovered and relieved of my isolation.

There is a man standing beside me, holding a loaf of French bread.

The French bread is wrapped in a brown paper bag like a poor man’s Christmas stocking. He is holding it by one end and it swings like a pendulum from his oversized hand.

I don’t understand why a guy his size and shape would be standing next to me in a bookstore holding a loaf of French bread. I just can’t get my mind around the idea. He and his French bread have no business here. It’s like a caveman showing up at a bridal shower. Someone should have stopped him at the door. “Excuse me sir, but we don’t allow your French bread toting kind around here.”

But they let him in with the French bread and now he’s standing, looming above me, with that bag of baguettes swinging by his side. I can smell that fucking French bread, and it smells good, which makes me hate his intrusion even more. Why couldn’t he have brought in a bag of flavorless croutons to put on a poorly made Caesar salad?

Finally I get the courage to look up at his face, his oily, over-bearded face, and meet him eye to eye. They’re brown, his eyes, shit brown, in case you were wondering.

I know he’s going to speak to me, I can see his upper lip quivering beneath his matted carpet of facial hair. I ready my ears as his gravely voice comes spilling out.

“Excuse me,” he says to me, “You’re blocking the Bukowski.” –

That’s the chapter they want me to cut. That’s the chapter they’re having trouble with. It may not be Hemmingway, but it still makes sense to me.