by Herocious
order two buffets. I eat exotic fruits and burrito and frijoles and yellow rice. We sit across from each other at a booth with a street corner view of brownstone stoops. Granddad loves Chicago neighborhoods, but he must be getting along to Indiana to meet with tool and dye shopkeepers.
He drops me off at my dorm room in Burton-Judson, BJ for people in the know, and I watch him drive away, his full head of hair brilliantly silver and trimmed.
Yes, I think, we do the best we can.
When I get back to my room, I plop down on the faux leather chair and feel a thick wall of indelible emptiness swell in my throat. I touch the forged blade of my seven-iron and almost cry. It’s hard saying goodbye.
8
“But his non-fiction is really good,” says Abe. “He ties it all together beautifully.”
Abe is the one who finally gets me to read Larry McMurtry. For some reason, until my conversation with Abe, I thought of Larry McMurtry as a genre writer. Lonesome Dove, though I’ve never read it and haven’t the slightest idea what it’s about, seems to be a very long western romance, and as a child I didn’t develop an interest in westerns.
If anything, I fostered disdain for everything cowboy. For some reason, I never had a hankering to ride horse, nor wear boots, nor drive a stampede, nor barely fit into my jeans.
Ropes and lassos, flocks and crops, cattle and horses, acres of arid land, cancer sticks and toothpicks, cowboy hats and wrangler shirts never grabbed my fascination. The truth is, I think I was born anti-western. From the very beginning, I preferred ocean settings, both domestic and international. I was drawn to tropical music and tropical art and tropical diversions.
I don’t think I’m the same way anymore. Not that I like westerns, or want to become western, but I’ve come to realize ocean settings, for all they’re cracked up to be, can only give me so much growth before, like any other setting – western or urban or mountain or forest, desert or rustic or island – I get complacent and, if I want to grow more, must change my trajectory and move to a different stage.
I’m in control of my own growth. I decide how much I want to grow. The more I see and live through, the more I’ll grow. It’s really quite easy. There’s nothing to it. Back in the days of my youth, I thought growing would be much harder.
In fact, it’s almost too easy the way I’m doing it. Maybe I’m doing it wrong? Could be. I know there are many areas, after all, in which I could afford to grow more, like in the marriage and family department. Becoming the husband and paterfamilias is, at least in my opinion, daunting and beautiful. In my 30 years, I’ve studied many guys my age or younger with wives and children. Although they seem staid and stolid – they are, after all, ramifying their family tree – they don’t always seem happy. Some are more accurately described as downright put upon, and their wives don’t seem any better off.
Bridget and I have talked at great lengths about marriage and family. We both want to get married and have/adopt children, but there’s no rush. For now, the intimacy shared every night, when our brains and hearts kiss, when our souls mingle, is still teaching us something new and making us grow more entwined. I know there will come a time when, to avoid getting complacent, we must change our trajectory and move on to a different stage.
I’m not sure what Larry McMurtry has to do with any of these feelings inside me. He’s a bibliophile to the nth degree, a true lover of books and the written word, and he isn’t afraid to let his words take him wherever they want to go.
It’s sad to think everything I’ve ever written, all my stories and failed efforts at getting published in a serious way, are nothing to Larry McMurtry, who is one of the last great readers on earth.
But this memory I’m writing is going to somehow find its way into his hands. I have a plan, and it’ll work because it isn’t based on merit. My problem with getting published in a serious way is depending too much on the merit of my writing, which is the same thing as depending on my own merit as a person, and I’m far from serious. If anything, I’m a scumbag.
While I may not deserve to get published in a big way, I do deserve to be read by Larry McMurtry. I learned recently he runs a secondhand bookstore in Archer City:
BOOKED UP
He’s often found behind the counter, running the day-to-day operations.
When I finish this memory, I plan to drive 297.5 miles north to Archer City. I’ll show the Texas Man of Letters my manuscript.
Then I’ll ask him one question.
I’ll say, “How many times in your life have you had the chance to Make Dreams Come True?
Then I’ll say, “We’re both human here. Let’s help each other.”
3
I don’t think Michael realizes she isn’t talking with him. He steps outside to take the trash to the dumpster, and our neighbor starts talking. It might seem like she’s talking with him since she’s looking at him, but she isn’t. She’s talking to herself in a roundabout way.
Still, for whatever reason, Michael decides to pay attention when she screams from the parking lot, “That fucking asshole! I hope he... Every guy who likes sports, they’re all fucking assholes, and I hope they bleed pus from their cocks! Do you hear me? Every guy who likes sports!”
“Yeah,” says Michael.
Can you believe he’d even respond? Because I can’t. I guess he figured she was distressed over some breakup. But she has serious mental issues.
When she continues talking about guys who like sports and pus, Michael calls for me in the kitchen. He says, “Bridget.”
It’s then he finally admits something isn’t right with her.
I open our door wider to make her aware other people in The Oaks can hear the things she’s saying. She spits a few vulgarities out of embarrassment and runs to her place.
But the sad thing is she lives in the apartment directly next to ours! While she’s looking for the right key to unlock her front door, Michael and I are quietly standing next to her. She keeps her head down. The freckles and acne on her face tremble.
And she’s wearing way too much perfume.
I feel like saying something. Maybe she needs some company. I feel bad saying this, but the last thing I want is to spend time with this girl. She’s completely unstable. And she always wears sweaters. No matter how hot it is – and it gets hot in Austin – I always see her wearing long-sleeved sweaters.
She’s probably hiding scars.
2
I’m in the bathroom changing out of my orange bathing suit and into pants when someone knocks on our door. The knock echoes throughout the empty apartment. It’s Sheldon here to do the final inspection.
Bridget lets him inside. I tighten my belt and look around the bathroom. It’s hard to believe there’s nothing inside these drawers, these cabinets. Just this afternoon I thought it would be impossible to pack everything into a box. It seemed like so much junk, but now it’s all gone.
There’s no shampoo or conditioner in the shower, none of Bridget’s razors, no body soap, no shower puff, no shower curtain even. Where has it all gone, and when will it be put to use again? This bathroom makes me sad. For nine months I groomed and relieved myself in this bathroom and now, somehow, there are no remnants. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think we never lived here.
“So you guys are all packed up?” The landlord asking the rhetorical question of the year.
He opens the freezer, takes out the icebox full of cubes, and dumps it into the sink to let thaw.
He opens the fridge, scans the shelves, and leaves both doors open. Then he unplugs the refrigerator and moves to the windows.
He opens all seven windows to air out the place of allergens, which Honeyed Cat did her best to spread evenly throughout.
He opens all the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen.
“Was this knob always missing?”
We tell him it was, in unison, and we’re being honest. But the landlord in him seems doubtful.
“What about this?” He touches the three-
shelf wall unit. “Are you taking this?”
We shake our heads, again in unison. “The girl moving in said she wants it.”
“Oh,” he says, “you’re leaving it behind for her?”
“Yes. She already agreed to buy it.”
He moves to the bedroom, “And what about the bed?”
“A friend of Chloe’s bought it. She’s picking it up tomorrow morning.”
Chloe is another of Sheldon’s tenants. She actually referred us to him nine months ago. If not for her, who knows what place we’d be leaving behind today?
7
After several hours of driving in the deep night, I’m happy with how alert I feel even though I should be exhausted.
Bridget is having trouble sleeping in the cab. The seats don’t go back, and without at least a little give, she can’t finagle her way into a single minute of decent repose.
Every minor aberration on the road jolts her stiff. She stares out the windshield and remembers how it wobbled. Then she studies my face for any signs of sleepiness.
Three years of living together with an observant and keen girl means no secrets. She knows when I’m sleepy, my lower jaw drops and my bottom lip goes slack.
No matter how many times she touches my chin, pushing it up and admonishing me, I don’t have the mindfulness to correct this telltale.
But the little pill I took three hours ago is working its magic without any effort, and the shape of my mouth tells Bridget I’m awake.
She settles into her pillow, shuts her