Spring 2015
“Say, you’re that writer guy, right? You was in the paper last week. Your first book just came out.”
“Yeh” I said, trying to force a smile.
“What’s it about, anyway?”
That question. Jesus. What was it about? I shook my head and shrugged, went back to the line-ups.
“Whatsamatter? I’m not good enough to talk to? Ah? Big shot writer?”
I shrugged, half apologetically. “I’d just as soon watch the game.” I pointed up at the screen as
the teams ran out onto the field.
“My sister is a writer. Suppose I bring her down here to talk to you?”
“Oh he doesn’t talk to other writers” Eddie, the barman, chipped in. I shot him a cold, hard stare..
“Doesn’t talk to writers?” the man repeated with a malicious squint. “What the hell’s the matter
with you? You some kind of nut?”
I sighed and shrugged and kept my eyes on the screen. The game was due to start.
“Doesn’t talk to other writers” he said again, more as though answering himself, trying to process
it. A brief silence passed between us. I could still feel his presence. You go to enough bars on enough
nights and you get to feel that heavy presence, that sense that something nasty was always a second
away from happening. That unpredictable meanness just lingering out of view that sets you on edge
and keeps you from being relaxed. I knew he wasn’t finished. Some guys never are.
“Say” he started up, leaning towards me, “lemme buy you a beer.”
“I’m all set, thanks.” I held up my still half full bottle as proof.
“Oh, my money’s no good now either?”
“Sure” I said, barely able to mask my irritation now, “that’s it.”
“Oh that’s it huh? That’s really it?”
“Yeh.”
“He’s driving” Eddie broke in again. “He goes to his old lady’s Monday nights. That’s his truck
out there.” I shot Eddie another ugly look. I could hardly blame him, though. He had seen his bar
smashed up three times over the last month. It gets to be expensive after a while.
“Where does your old lady live that you can’t have a couple beers?”
“Why?” I snapped. I had already missed the opening kick-off.
“It’s a fair question” he shrugged.
“You don’t need to know” I said. “It’s none of your business.”
“None of my business hah? None of my business? You don’t talk to writers and it’s none of my
business.”
I slammed the paper down onto the bar. “I don’t talk to writers because rounded up together
most of them till wouldn’t be worth a damn. They’re self-important, and they’re boring. They think
they have to have pen names and character arcs and a beginning, middle and en end. Since when was
life like that? What’s your god damned arc? Every jerk off you meet these days is a God damned writer.
But none of them bleed. None of them have tasted defeat, been kicked around with the trash or
watched a helluva title fight through a shop window cos they can’t afford a television set of their own.
None of them have had a bar fight or gone hungry or come off worse after a clash with the law. What
they write about would blow away if the wind picked up.“ I was wound up now. I was missing the
game and needed a piss.
The Linnet's Wings