by Greg Hischak
03.26.01

I HAD ANOTHER COGNAC AND ROLLED ANOTHER CIGARETTE and smoked it and then I rolled another one and smoked that too. The morning was Cool and sunny and I sat outside the cafe at the table furthest from the street. People walked by on their way to work and I waved to Michaud as he passed—glad that he didn't stop to ask why I missed kick-boxing class the night before. As usual first lines were not coming easily to me:

"The Cast in Order of Appearance."

I scribbled with my pencil stub and then quickly crossed it out. "Simplify, Ernest, simplify," I said aloud, hitting my fist hard against my forehead and getting the attention of Mm. Recamier, who was watering the sidewalk. I ordered another cognac, dissembling the line into its components of vowel and consonant. Stripping it to its bones and then cutting it in half—like gutting a fish. I thought about fishing for awhile considering how fishing was like writing, only without the funny rubber pants, and how you wrestled with an idea for a long time only to have the idea get away with a hook in its mouth. Sometimes you caught the idea in a net only to let it go because it was a small idea, and sometimes you hit the idea over its head with a little stick and took it home and rolled it in flour and fried it.

I recalled Gertrude's advice when I showed her my first draft. Repeat "Order of Appearance," she said, until it ran together and ran backwards and said "Appearance of Order" and then Gertrude repeated what she had just said and then she started to say it again but I got angry and left.

Returning to the work at hand I put my pencil to paper:

"The Cast."

Yes, that was better. I breathed deeply and began to relax.

With the morning's work done I headed toward Sylvia's to pick up my mail. Sylvia smiled from behind the counter when she handed me the papers and a box of Junior Mints.

"How's Ford's program coming, Ernest?"

"I think today was a good day."

"I'm glad. You write such beautiful programs."

The next day was warmer than the previous and I sat in the cafe at a table close to the street. There was a man with a cart selling onions and I bought one and put it in my pocket to eat later with the Ding Dong that I had in my other pocket as I began the morning's work:

"There will be two intermissions of 10 minute durations."

I dragged deeply from my cigarette, I felt my forehead creasing.

"Please refrain from bringing beverages and snacks outside of the lobby area."

What if the line could be expressed without its baroque ornamentation? Think of the war, Ernest. Could I say "food and drink" and still convey an aura of uninspiring wine and stale biscotti? Could I say "Consume your food and drinks and sit down," disassembling the language still further? Sweat poured off my face and blotched my notebook:

"Shut your hole and watch."

Illuminating and urgent-like lightning along the Algarve. If I used tiny italics, I would have room to write about cows standing in woods and leaves crunching underfoot and the dribble of wine down chins and happy peasants carrying my golf clubs down to the lake, but instead I grimaced and scrawled:

"Mm. Apollinaire's understudy is Raul Petoing, who also performs the role of Prof. Harold Hill on Saturday matinees."

I didn't want to write anymore that day. Writing made me cranky and being cranky made me hungry so I ordered a small fish from Mm. Recamier because I had been thinking about fish and I ate it and then I took out my onion and ate that too. I ordered another cognac from Recamier and while I waited for it I slowly removed the foil wrapping from my Ding Dong.

Instead of buying into my brother's muffler franchise when given the chance, I had become a writer. It was a difficult calling and I shut my eyes, letting the sun warm my lids. I thought about walking down the shady side of the rue l'Odeon to rue Cardinal Lemoine and across the Boulevard Ste. Germain to rue d'Assas, knowing if I did that I wouldn't know how to get back—and I'd have to call Hadley to pick me up—but if I cut through the gardens to the Closerie des Lilas, keeping Halle aux Vins on the right, I would get to the jette where I would find Francis throwing rocks into the canal. I liked throwing rocks into the canal with Francis—brooding and throwing rocks—Francis and I had talked about going to Spain together that summer where I told him there were lots of streams and lots of rocks to throw into them. I explained how the streams were clear and cold and the rocks were hard and gray and made a white splash when they hit the water. Francis was quiet for awhile and then asked if Zelda could tag along and I told him I didn't think so.

"So, how's my program coming, Ernest?"

I jumped in my chair, upsetting my Ding Dong. The way a raccoon crosses a street when it sees a particularly nice piece of garbage on the other side, Ford Maddox Ford had crossed the street and stood behind me. Ford's name irritated me because I always made a point of addressing him by his last name, but he always assumed I was addressing him by his first name. I didn't like Ford and he knew it. "Damn you, Ford, don't ever sneak up on me like that."

"I need to take the program to the Kinko's tomorrow, is it going to be ready?"

"Tomorrow? If you want garbage then yes, it will be ready tomorrow."

"Garbage is fine." Ford pulled out a wrinkled piece of cheese wrapper and my neck turned red knowing what was coming.

"I have a few things we need to add after the bios."

"I was putting in a piece about trout fishing after the bios."

"Monsieur Bouteleau bought a very large ad space."

"Bouteleau is an idiot who sells exercise machines."

"Fitness equipment, Ernest. He sells Nordic Tracks and he bought the inside back cover."

"My fishing piece was going on the back cover. You're taking out my fishing piece to sell exercise machines?"

I took a swing at Ford but he ducked away from the table and headed back across the street cackling with a high-pitched laugh that made me want to put my cigarette out on his nose.

I yelled after him, "Who the hell wants ad space when they can read about cows and trout and wine and hills and clouds and—"

Ford turned back and shouted from across the street "Just slide it under my door when it is typed, and don't forget to mention Guillaume's understudy."