I remember the moment I decided I wanted to be a writer. I was in New Jersey, on my knees, in a basement, with a construction worker, trying to earn some extra money...
No. No. I was tiling the floor.
It was a restaurant and I was working on a Sunday, finishing up the job so that it would be ready for the grand opening. They had this thing where they wanted to be able to hose down the floor. Just stand there with a hose and clean the whole fucking room. So we had to pour like a ton of concrete along the walls and slope the whole floor towards the drain, and then tile it, and it was a bitch let me tell you. Somewhere along the line, we fell behind schedule (I think it was the moment the owner of the restaurant came through with a hammer, hit a bunch of tiles and announced that any that broke where not set properly. My boss offered to do the same to the owner's head and see if that was set properly, which didn't work out as well as we'd hoped in that we lost the other half of the job - they let us finish the basement).
So there I am, on my knees with this old, crusty bastard - nice guy, don't get me wrong - and he starts talking about his former life. The one before his wife turned to heroin and he had to take care of his son, his (now) ex-wife's legal issues and the rigors of owning a small construction business (we were subcontracting under this guy BTW). He started explaining how he was an actor, and how he used to be a quasi-star in Soap Operas.
I tell him to fuck off.
He says, "No, I'm serious, I was on One Life to Live."
I pull out my phone, and call my boss. They've known each other for years, I figure he can put an end to this.
"What's up Bill?"
"Hey, I got a question to ask you."
"Sure."
"Was Sammy in Soap Operas?"
"Sammy? Yeah, he was, but why do you care?"
"I'm standing here with him, and he said he was a bit of a star."
"You're with Sammy?"
"Yeah."
"Why are you with Sammy?"
"We're finishing up the restaurant job. Gotta be done by the grand opening."
"I didn't tell you to finish that. Fuck, Bill, he still owes me three grand! I'm not finishing it until I get paid. You just fucked me, Bill, took away my only bargaining chip! Get your stupid ass out of there right now!"
And I hung up, and started listening again.
"Not only did I act in them," Sammy explained, "but the producer loved me. She let me sit in in casting sessions. One time, she mounted me on the table, and told me I could have her right there if I wanted."
"And?"
"And nothing. I was married at the time, my wife was sober, I couldn't do it."
"Putz."
"Oh sure, I regretted it later, but at the time I just couldn't. I ended up quitting acting and concentrating on my business and raising my son. Especially when my wife had her problems, the divorce, I just couldn't handle the pressure anymore, and the money was shit. She turned out to be this big time editor in New York. Never was sure what the connection between producing a soap and editing books was. But I still talk to her now and then. She keeps asking me to write a memoir."
"That only matters," I told him, "if you can write."
A gleam came into his old, half-lidded eyes (by this time, Sammy was a full-time drunk. Like a six-pack before breakfast drunk. Which is part of what contributed to his owing my boss 3 g's and their eventual falling out, and more than just a part of this story) and he said, "I can write. There's a lot of things I can't do, but I can write."
"So you're telling me that you have an editor in New York...."
"Yes."
"Who wants to publish your book...."
"Yes."
"And you haven't gotten off your ass and written it yet?"
He thought for a moment. "Yes."
And suddenly I was flashed back to a car in a small town in Maine. (Yes, the state. If you don't know where it is, don't worry, no one else does) I was in the back of the car and my two friends were in the front. We were passing the bowl around (if you don't know what that means, we were smoking pot) and discussing what we would do with our lives (no one mentioned curing cancer, strangely) and how we would get the hell out of Maine. I took the pipe, tamped it down, and took a hard rip.
"I'm going to be a writer," I said.
Snap back to a basement in Jersey.
"If I wrote a book, and gave it to you," I asked, "could you give it to her?"
He thought again. "I can promise I'll get it to her desk. I can't promise she'll like it."
And my literary career was born. That very night, I sat down at my coffee table - in my basement apartment - with a pen and a three ring binder full of notebook paper, and began my first novel. It took me nine months. It was short. It was convoluted. And it sucked like a Hoover.
But none of that mattered.
Because Sammy was long gone. Having burned every bridge he had crossed in his long fifty-five years. He left everyone he knew with debt. Changed his number, and skirted town.
He only owed me five hundred bucks. But he owed far more than that to my dreams. No editor, no chance at stardom. Just a three ring binder full of hand-scratched dialogue and plot points. I felt alone, outnumbered, and dying inside.
But life often plays in the long, forth quarter football none of us can see. Each second of each quarter seems the most important moment in the world. But you never know when the other team will drop the ball. And that's exactly what happened, thousands of miles and years down the line.
What happened?
I met someone.
His name is Rick Glacier and I saw him in a dream. Big and Cold and in control. He walked into a room and the ladies followed. Maybe it was the vodka. Maybe it was the Rockstar Juiced. Maybe it was fate. But he walked into my life and onto my word processor and my life hasn't been the same since. And last month I was able to get his first story published.
Snap to today.
I'm walking through a Starbucks and wondering if I still have the half-pint stuffed under my seat so I can make a good old fashioned Hottie Tottie and I pass a table piled with books. The girl at it has her nose half-buried. I stop, look at the titles: "Fiction in the Twentieth Century." "How to Write Fiction." "The Greats: Stories from the Masters."
"Well," I say, she perks up, "I see someone wants to be a writer."
"No," she snaps, "I am a writer."
"Oh, I see." I lean against the table. "What do you write?"
"Fantasy, mostly."
"Got anything published?"
"Not yet, but I'm working on it."
"Good for you," I tell her, wink. "Never give up."
I turn and walk away.
"Who are you?" she asks my back.
"Oh," I say to myself, "I'm just a guy who wants to be a writer."
No. No. I was tiling the floor.
It was a restaurant and I was working on a Sunday, finishing up the job so that it would be ready for the grand opening. They had this thing where they wanted to be able to hose down the floor. Just stand there with a hose and clean the whole fucking room. So we had to pour like a ton of concrete along the walls and slope the whole floor towards the drain, and then tile it, and it was a bitch let me tell you. Somewhere along the line, we fell behind schedule (I think it was the moment the owner of the restaurant came through with a hammer, hit a bunch of tiles and announced that any that broke where not set properly. My boss offered to do the same to the owner's head and see if that was set properly, which didn't work out as well as we'd hoped in that we lost the other half of the job - they let us finish the basement).
So there I am, on my knees with this old, crusty bastard - nice guy, don't get me wrong - and he starts talking about his former life. The one before his wife turned to heroin and he had to take care of his son, his (now) ex-wife's legal issues and the rigors of owning a small construction business (we were subcontracting under this guy BTW). He started explaining how he was an actor, and how he used to be a quasi-star in Soap Operas.
I tell him to fuck off.
He says, "No, I'm serious, I was on One Life to Live."
I pull out my phone, and call my boss. They've known each other for years, I figure he can put an end to this.
"What's up Bill?"
"Hey, I got a question to ask you."
"Sure."
"Was Sammy in Soap Operas?"
"Sammy? Yeah, he was, but why do you care?"
"I'm standing here with him, and he said he was a bit of a star."
"You're with Sammy?"
"Yeah."
"Why are you with Sammy?"
"We're finishing up the restaurant job. Gotta be done by the grand opening."
"I didn't tell you to finish that. Fuck, Bill, he still owes me three grand! I'm not finishing it until I get paid. You just fucked me, Bill, took away my only bargaining chip! Get your stupid ass out of there right now!"
And I hung up, and started listening again.
"Not only did I act in them," Sammy explained, "but the producer loved me. She let me sit in in casting sessions. One time, she mounted me on the table, and told me I could have her right there if I wanted."
"And?"
"And nothing. I was married at the time, my wife was sober, I couldn't do it."
"Putz."
"Oh sure, I regretted it later, but at the time I just couldn't. I ended up quitting acting and concentrating on my business and raising my son. Especially when my wife had her problems, the divorce, I just couldn't handle the pressure anymore, and the money was shit. She turned out to be this big time editor in New York. Never was sure what the connection between producing a soap and editing books was. But I still talk to her now and then. She keeps asking me to write a memoir."
"That only matters," I told him, "if you can write."
A gleam came into his old, half-lidded eyes (by this time, Sammy was a full-time drunk. Like a six-pack before breakfast drunk. Which is part of what contributed to his owing my boss 3 g's and their eventual falling out, and more than just a part of this story) and he said, "I can write. There's a lot of things I can't do, but I can write."
"So you're telling me that you have an editor in New York...."
"Yes."
"Who wants to publish your book...."
"Yes."
"And you haven't gotten off your ass and written it yet?"
He thought for a moment. "Yes."
And suddenly I was flashed back to a car in a small town in Maine. (Yes, the state. If you don't know where it is, don't worry, no one else does) I was in the back of the car and my two friends were in the front. We were passing the bowl around (if you don't know what that means, we were smoking pot) and discussing what we would do with our lives (no one mentioned curing cancer, strangely) and how we would get the hell out of Maine. I took the pipe, tamped it down, and took a hard rip.
"I'm going to be a writer," I said.
Snap back to a basement in Jersey.
"If I wrote a book, and gave it to you," I asked, "could you give it to her?"
He thought again. "I can promise I'll get it to her desk. I can't promise she'll like it."
And my literary career was born. That very night, I sat down at my coffee table - in my basement apartment - with a pen and a three ring binder full of notebook paper, and began my first novel. It took me nine months. It was short. It was convoluted. And it sucked like a Hoover.
But none of that mattered.
Because Sammy was long gone. Having burned every bridge he had crossed in his long fifty-five years. He left everyone he knew with debt. Changed his number, and skirted town.
He only owed me five hundred bucks. But he owed far more than that to my dreams. No editor, no chance at stardom. Just a three ring binder full of hand-scratched dialogue and plot points. I felt alone, outnumbered, and dying inside.
But life often plays in the long, forth quarter football none of us can see. Each second of each quarter seems the most important moment in the world. But you never know when the other team will drop the ball. And that's exactly what happened, thousands of miles and years down the line.
What happened?
I met someone.
His name is Rick Glacier and I saw him in a dream. Big and Cold and in control. He walked into a room and the ladies followed. Maybe it was the vodka. Maybe it was the Rockstar Juiced. Maybe it was fate. But he walked into my life and onto my word processor and my life hasn't been the same since. And last month I was able to get his first story published.
Snap to today.
I'm walking through a Starbucks and wondering if I still have the half-pint stuffed under my seat so I can make a good old fashioned Hottie Tottie and I pass a table piled with books. The girl at it has her nose half-buried. I stop, look at the titles: "Fiction in the Twentieth Century." "How to Write Fiction." "The Greats: Stories from the Masters."
"Well," I say, she perks up, "I see someone wants to be a writer."
"No," she snaps, "I am a writer."
"Oh, I see." I lean against the table. "What do you write?"
"Fantasy, mostly."
"Got anything published?"
"Not yet, but I'm working on it."
"Good for you," I tell her, wink. "Never give up."
I turn and walk away.
"Who are you?" she asks my back.
"Oh," I say to myself, "I'm just a guy who wants to be a writer."
Bull shit.
ReplyDeleteYou ARE a writer ...
And, I promise, that's not the vodka talking.
xoxo
PMT