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 Later tonight I might take off the jacket and tie, but for now the outfit feels official, and I know I look good. Everything matches; just the way I planned it out on index cards this afternoon at work. It's late evening here in Bronwell Corners, and I'm executing Card # 28: Carlton Ewing types chapter one of his autobiography in triplicate.The haircut cost me an extra few bucks at Al's on the corner of Brighton and 21st. I told myself that I could afford the spare change. I told Al to splash me up with Jeris Tonic and talcum powder. He asked if I wanted to slip off the jacket first. I told him to keep the change and just get on with it. Al's all right, and he's a pretty good barber, but several years ago his breath turned bad from loss of sex and romance. That's the end of one story and the beginning of another this weekend. The plot line runs much the same as that of other scribblers who live for their art and let other folks worry over finances. Not many of us left. Just a few brave souls who decide to go for their dreams. Do the work you love and the debt will follow. But to hell with the debt. Marry someone who'll support your habit, earn an inheritance, accept corn flakes and a rusty shower, or imagine the whole damned thing. I'll leave this pink room at midnight for my cliff-side mansion. I'll arrive by light of a stormy moon. I'll have the maid, Lucinda, brew me a pot of chamomile, set it down on the oak table beside my armchair and then leave. I won't let her see my face. I'll wear a black silk mask until she departs. Under my mask lives a lifetime's worth of wounds. What good is a gothic romance and a good haircut without a lifetime's worth of wounds? Lucinda will love me, but she'll feel afraid to ask. She'll hesitate in the archway and shoot me that look, and then she'll remember my wounds and catch a whiff of Jeris Tonic, both of which will convince her that tonight is not the night for intrigue and sweaty naked bodies. Once Lucinda leaves I'll hit the buzzer that signals the wrought iron gate to slide shut. The phone will ring and I'll remember that I don't own a phone. I'll strike a long wooden match to light the fire inside the greystone hearth. I'll remember that it's summertime and that's when I'll take off the jacket. I'll take my tea into the study and wonder why a man who lives alone inside a cliff-side mansion needs a study and won't drink something harder than chamomile tea. I'll tell myself not to think too much, just to write according to Card #29: Carlton Ewing reveals his wounds on 20 pound paper. No second drafts. No time left for second drafts. The moon will thunder in the sky. Lightning bolts will rain ice on the crenellated turrets above the east wing. Fog will light up the west wing. Twenty-first century tourists will walk the beach a quarter of a mile below the window where the one candle burns. *** Thanks for stopping by to visit us here at SpilledBeans.com. If you'd like to be notified whenever something new is posted to SpilledBeans.com, then please join the Spilled Beans notification list. -- Con affetto, Anthony V. Toscano, Editor SpilledBeans.com  |
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