I have never climbed a tree. The neighbor's dog barks. And the thread to this tale is lost. It is that easy. I hang my head all the way home. And contemplate all the stories I have never written. I have filled many empty books.
I attend a party that night, and everyone is drunk. Except me. The host has hired a fortune teller. I have my fortune told. I am creative, and have a long lifeline, he says. Noon tomorrow, and the day after, he repeats over and over. My hand in his makes me uneasy.
Maddy asks me if I am having fun. It’s her place, her shindig.
I’m not sure, I respond. I have an Anchor Steam, then another. People become more interesting.
I am on Main Street the following day. It is blustery and the helter-skelter leaves skitter and skate, bone dry, everywhere. A sure sign Winter is open for business.
The noon whistle blows. A remanent from earlier days when the Excelsior typewriter factory was in full swing. My Dad and two aunts worked there. Many of my friends and I happily toiled on the assembly line in the summer. It was good, honest work. Our valley was filled with the rat-a-tat-tat of tapping fingers, Monday through Friday. Saturday, too, if there was a big order in the pipeline.
I type about 80 words per minute, which is significantly above average.
You’d think I’d have something more to show for it. Even for a man of few words.
A flyer tumbles toward me. It sticks to my boot. It advertises a flea market that opens tomorrow at Noon. At the county fairgrounds just outside town. We haven’t had a county fair in years. I miss deep-fried Snickers and Charlie Daniels.
I wake early. And sit for hours. The birds seem especially agitated.
I enter the fairgrounds precisely at Noon. I park close to the entrance.
I see a fortune teller. The same man from Maddy’s party. His booth, such as it is, sits alone. The other merchants maintain a healthy distance, especially Madam Rose. She is hawking tarot cards, Ouija boards, and powdered chicken hearts. She also sells stuffed animals—the black cat hisses when you squeeze it.
I feel his eyes on me.
I saw you at the party the other night, I say.
No, I do not believe so, he says.
I let it go.
Would you like your fortune told, he asks? I do not take cash, but we can barter, he adds.
I don’t have anything to trade, I say.
Of course, you do, he says.
He flips open a large heavy leather book. He looks pleased.
His pen is sheathed.
What do you want, he asks?
I hesitate, flustered, and stutter. I strangle on my words.
What do you want, he asks again? He emphasizes the word want. His eyes open wider as he does.
I want to be a famous writer, I say. There is no hesitation this time.
Well, maybe you can write about writing, he offers.
I can never finish it, I say. I never finish anything.
You can finish this, he reassures. Perhaps you already have.
I ask if he has helped other writers.
Of course, many, he answers.
Hemingway?
Yes, he answers.
Bukowski?
Certainly, he responds. Salinger, Poe, Plath. So many. They are all in my book.
Shakespeare?
No, he was touched by another, he answers. He looks forlorn.
By sheer unconscious reflex, I extend my hand. My mind is on Sylvia Plath gassing herself to death in an oven. I reckon her family only used the stovetop from that day forward. I have an electric stove. I feel better than ever about my decision.
He pokes the fat part of my thumb with the tip of his pen, then places the pen back in its sheath. I press my thumb into his book, on a page toward the back. Suddenly the chattering birds go quiet. I have never heard sweeter silence. I scan the trees for a moment. I then realize I am standing alone. The fortune-teller has disappeared.
I feel extra sharp. I am a fresh diamond shredding heavy glass. Everything and everyone around me has slowed. I am a raging river in a molasses world. I see deep color at every turn.
I approach my car and my cell phone rings. I answer.
Hi, this is Abby Michaels from Simon and Schuster. We rarely entertain unsolicited manuscripts, as you can imagine, but yours is quite good. Transcendent. We’d like to schedule a time for you to come to our office and discuss publishing Qwerty. We love the title. Your portrayal of the struggling writer is searing, poignant, and…
I listen and thank her. We agree to meet Tuesday at Noon to review contracts and talk about publicity and marketing strategy. Noon. On the dot. Do I really have a choice?
I have no recollection of sending a manuscript to Simon and Schuster. Qwerty is a catchy title, I admit. I am eager to read it when we meet. My thumb stops oozing blood about five minutes after we end our call.