(excerpted from the novel in development, entitled Haggis on a Biscuit)
“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement
halls”
--Paul Simon, New York 1965
It’s my
birthday today. April 1st. My family is planning to surprise me with a
cake tonight. We’ll probably play
pictionary. Then my son will destroy me
at Need for Speed Six.
I don’t
show my years, but sometimes I feel them.
To me, that’s one of the most loathsome aspects of middle age. Whatever I am, the me that faithfully wills
this body to get up and face the world every morning, is not interested in
facts. Come what may, it remains
indisputably convinced that it’s still seventeen, or maybe twenty-two. Yet little things have begun to occur. Nothing radical. But unsettling. There’s no longer any distance at which I can
hold a phonebook or a newspaper and read it clearly. (I think my arms have grown shorter.) Hair has begun to appear in discomfiting
locations. And it’s not mine; it lacks
pigment. My wives don’t yell at me
anymore…as much. Their concerted program
of domestication may finally be paying some small dividends. Last Christmas, I noticed a two year old
cuddled in my lap. She looked like one
of mine, but then she called me ‘Grampa.’
I’ll admit
it. I’m not ten feet tall and
bullet-proof anymore. I duck a lot
quicker than I used to though. And more
often.
Fifty-something
probably wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t expected to get along with fifty-some year
old people. Proctologists and portfolios
and death benefits and condos in Alabama
are not the stuff of polite dinner conversation. Male or female, those who talk about aging
with dignity should be promptly and summarily shown the door with a well aimed kick. I will not go out gracefully. When the grim reaper calls my name again, I
plan to ignore the bum. Or spit in his eye.
I’m busy. If he wants to be
foolishly persistent, he’ll have to win the best two out of three falls and
I’ve already won the first two. I fight
dirty. No, when and if my time’s ever
finally up, that old boy’s going to need to ambush me, with reinforcements, and
drag me off kicking and screaming every centimeter of the way.
I am
feeling better now that the stitches are out and the voices have stopped. There
is nothing like sun and salt air and the sound of waves to smooth down the frangled
edges of your last remaining nerve. It’s
like a return to the womb…except for the sun and the air and the absence of a womb.
I’ve been smoothing frangles for about
four weeks now. Spending some of the bonus money from my last project. The Republic of Ocracoke has been a great place to do
that. Off season. Fifty miles from the nearest anything. Great
food. Layed-back locals.
Back in the
world, too many otherwise harmless people run their mouths just to hear the
noise they make and give their brains something simple to do while they’re
breathing. If they were actually
thinking, would they be asking a lot of irrelevant questions about things that
are none of their business? Like “What
do you do? Who do you work for? How do you get paid?” Even if they really cared, how do you explain
that you were issued sealed orders and when you opened them all the pages were
blank? I’ve found if I mention something
about selling insurance they usually shut up.
If they won’t, I end up selling them some. I keep licenses current under
two names just in case. But I don’t want
to go through the effort, so I like it here.
I guided The White Rabbit back into harbor about
twenty minutes ago. We left the marina
at 6:30 this morning with
a private charter group hoping for sea bass or mackerel or mahi mahi. The Gulf Stream was almost like glass when we got there, and
I gave them a full three hours. They weren’t disappointed. We were back in our slip by 11:45. I just finished hosing down the decks. Kristiaan and Jo and Jo are over at the
Clipper picking up some shrimp and Carta Blanca and sodas.
We didn’t have
our last real house long enough get attached to it. We’ll probably settle into another one sooner
or later, but for now living on boat isn’t bad at all. “The Bunny” is a 66’ Meridian Pilothouse with
some very special features.
I love
gadgets that do what they’re supposed to do.
I love them even more when they exceed my expectations. Take this thing for example. Proto Issue multi-platform MobileMac G7. Proprietary onboard 1.5 tbps secure wireless e-wave
satellite uplink. Planetary GPS. NytroQuadCore
sealed cryogenic processor complex with 3.3 Petabytes of photopolymeric crystal
cluster multidimensional holographic data storage and 166 Terabytes of
RAM. Power source is a combination of
microphotovoltaics and a crystal polyether-ionic capaci-wafer. Don’t ask. I have no idea. I don’t even know how to charge it. Haven’t
needed to in seven months. I think it
involves sorcery. The whole tamale weighs
less than 1.5 kilos including the military grade titanium faraday shell. The price tag—if I could buy it—would be several times that of my last car. (And I
drove a nice car, until some
Guatemalans blew it up.) The Mac was a
gift. From Alice.
My guess is she stole it. She’s
like that.
It’s a very handy toy though; so I don’t let my
conscience bother me too much. I just
think of it as part of a severance package from one of former employers. I’m sure they haven’t missed it. They’ve been a little busy sifting through what’s
left of their headquarters. That’s right. Same Guatemalans. My car was in the parking garage when the
bomb went off. It was an annoying day.
I have been
diligently trying to avoid anything that smells of real work, but it won’t go
away. It keeps scratching at the back door
and howling. True, this field journal
does need some cleaning up. It may be of
value to someone. Sometime. Besides which Budd—my current therapist—insists
that my verbal debriefing was significantly less than linear and strongly
recommends written reflection to facilitate detailed inner accounting and
cathartic release. I think she may be a closet
kabbalist. I quoted Dr. Richard Ames at
her. I told her that writing, once
begun, almost invariably becomes an irreversible addiction and a fundamentally
sociopathic undertaking. A disease. She
didn’t care. She told my wives to humor
me and expect an outbreak at any time. To leave me alone and avoid eye contact
when it occurred. Just guide me to a quiet
corner and push food at me with a broom handle.
Personally,
I think there are perfectly understandable reasons why my report was “significantly
less than linear.” There just might be
some things I don’t want to dig
through. Why else would I pack up my family and disappear? But I’ll play along. Maybe it will help…a little. Then again…
Lunch is
here. I’ll write more later. Jo’s smiling and she’s got a broom. I’m afraid she’ll spill my beer.
