I don’t choose it. It chooses me. There is no alarm clock, not even a ticking one in my bedroom, other than the one in my mottled brain. My sleep is deep, some exciting enough to write about. That is when I get the brown end of the stick. At 1 a.m. my body rebels. I sit up, damning, cursing my lack of control over myself. The dream, a possible basis for a short story or a chapter in my book lies idle on the night stand. It flies away like leaves on a windy October morning. I throw it at the closed window, knowing exactly how hard and how far I can toss it without breaking the glass. Ah, satisfaction. This morning’s toss is perfect. It drops harmlessly on the carpet.
Maybe I should burn my woebegone book. I am only kidding myself that I will finish it someday. If I do, my agent, Charlie Ross, will have it air expressed to Random House and ‘Untitled’ may be born. In a week Mr. Random FAXES Charley. ‘Good going! Bring Miss Julian to my office Saturday, October 24, 2 p.m.’ And my dream then becomes a soap bubble and bursts before my eyes.
That’s it. I push away my soft down quilt, dangle my feet into warm, cuddly slippers, remnants of my being a teen. An hour of darkness is diddled away. There are 4 more until five and I can watch dawn yawn, the paper boy tossing his wares from a funky car that must have taken hundreds of tosses to get the cost. I reminisce, wonder where all the paper boys went, how many might be doctors now, teachers, bums, criminals. How many were killed in Saddamland, Afghanistan? ‘Morbid, morbid. Sun, come out, brighten the sky and my lousy disposition.’
‘Hell,’ I yell. I forgot my car is do at Lexus by 8:30. I liken my lovely car to myself, ‘We both need a tune-up.’ Mr. Donald is standing near the large glass door as it automatically opens for me. ‘You are a few minutes late, Madam. Cappacino is hot. The croissants are warm and there is home-made raspberry preserves a treasured client brought us. Your wait will be less than an hour. Relax and enjoy yourself.’
The waiting area is filled. I love it. I look around, look and write. A lady about forty sits opposite me. She wears pink, a really pink, pink pair of cut off cotton pants topped by a nameless plain white T shirt. Glam sunglasses aren’t really needed in the building but to each her own. My Glams are in my shoulder bag. My fascination is she has a Writing Book on her lap with a pink cover. Her fingers barely hold her pink pen as her hand glides from line to line, page to page. I wonder if she is writing about me writing about her. ‘Mrs. Courtney, you car is ready.’ The lady is escorted to the cashier where I ask Mrs. Courtney’s phone number. ‘Sorry, Ma’am. There are strict privacy restrictions.’ Rules, rules. This world has too many rules. Did I miss a great chance? Does she have an unfinished book doing nothing but waiting for me?
Three very senior men, unknown to each other, are hogging cyberspace. Their cell phones sound like Quasimoto tolling the chimes. One is almost sobbing as his computer hard drive has to be replaced. One humphs and apologizes that he will be home late for dinner. The third says nastily, ‘I’ll be there when I get there.’ His cell goes in his back pocket. He hurries out to find somebody important to complain to about something.
Impatient readers are engrossed in heavy hardbacks, crumpled newspapers, magazines. The man who took the pink lady’s seat still has some tufts of thin gray hair on his head. He smooths it every 3 seconds. Under his navy blue windbreaker, a white knit shirt with wide red stripes peeks at me. Propped on his crossed legs is a tome that he most likely won’t finish before he wears out the remaining tufts on his head. As a non-qualified M.D. I believe his has Palsy or else he is simply trying to find out who the murderer is in Patterson’s latest mystery. I can see his eyes move as he checks off one character after the other. He leaves and won’t know whodunit until he pays for the car service and gets to where he wants to go.
I take a moment to rest as I feel writer’s cramp coming on and realize another senior gentleman has been staring at me, perhaps amazed at my concentration. When he sees me look at him, he quickly averts his eyes. His actions lead me to believe he sees frogs coming out of my mouth.
A name is being called but I can’t catch it. It’s called again. On the third time I walk over to a young woman who has no seat and ask if she could hear it. ‘Yes, Wilson.’ I thank her and explain my name is Millison and I thought I was being called. ‘Sorry,’ she says and I wonder why she is sorry.
‘Millison, Millison,’ rings loud and clear. I follow Buddy to the cashier window and am delighted, ‘No charge. Your warranty will be over next week.’ I had been so into my writing, I hadn’t realized it was noon and I could use a sandwich. Buddy tells me there is a little eatery across the street, one block to the left. I leave my car on the lot and walk over. The place is busy but there are seats at the counter. Chills run down my spine. Between two empty stools is the lady in pink. This is fate. I speak to her at once as she is almost finished a slice of apple pie.
She is attractive but that is not important. All I care about is her Writing Book. The lady is a high school English teacher and the book contains exercises for her students’ homework. Kindly she lets me glance at them. We talk a few minutes about form and story writing. She takes her check, wishes me good luck with my book, and leaves me sitting there eating a hard boiled egg sandwich. I am disappointed but glad to have that now off of my mind.
We would never collaborate. I am a far better writer than she is. My day was well spent and I am ready to dig into ‘Untitled’ tomorrow.
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