Sixteen stories over Fifth
sipping noon wine he seemed
translucent in the Saturday sun.
"Better not wait" I thought
and said, "Dan, every good thing
that ever happened to me
in this city I owe to you."
He cupped his better ear.
"Did you say owe?"
Oh Oh. Mouth turned down,
a fragile frown, puzzled eyebrows
independently arched, which meant:
"Bad lead. You've always had
this thing for overdone emotion.
Try a few facts up front for a change.
Besides, we both know you're still
steamed I never ran that piece on the
cultural junction between Avenue B
and the DMZ. Not the dumbest idea
you ever dreamed up, but close."
I brushed imaginary crumbs, which meant:
"Typical. I finally say something
I've wanted to tell you for years and
instead of accepting it gracefully you
put me on the defensive."
He rubbed his chin, which meant:
"You're putting yourself on the
defensive. By now you should have
figured out you're your own worst
enemy. Next you'll be blaming me because
you didn't take that job at Newsweek."
I studied refraction rainbows in the
semi-inexpensive wine, which meant:
"Hey, if I wanted to blame you, we could
begin by discussing why you never
started a new paper."
He glanced at his watch, which meant:
"You're living in the past again.
Did somebody pass a law preventing you
from starting a paper?"
I shaded my eyes, which meant:
"Yeah, but you have all those sons
and daughters and a knack for filling
shelves with other people's words.
You're the one with the unseen compass
that points where the story really wants
to go. You're the one…"
He reached for his drink, which meant:
"Whine whine whine. You know the tragedy
of your life? You're only half Irish.
Otherwise you'd have a couple of
best-sellers under your belt, and probably
a liver like Swiss cheese."
I straightened up, which meant:
"Okay, okay. How's this
for a second draft?"
"Thank you."
Dan smiled, and asked, "Why
so sentimental? What's the matter,
are you dying?"
Which meant: "Don't mention it."
[/FONT]
