Sunday, Sunday, August the twenty-somethingith

Okay,

I thought I had this all figured out last night when my dear friend came over and walked me through the whole thing, for the second time. By the time we got to the end, I was cross-eyed with wayy too much information, and realized that if I hadn't taken notes, I would probably never be able to find my way back here, much less remember how to post anything.

But...wonder of wonders, I'm back.



Now, the problem is what the heck to write here? I journal, I write essays, books, short stories, ruminations and rants. I write things to explain how my weird brain works to myself. I write gifts to the people and animals and cats (cats are NOT necessarily animals, just ask them) who help me on this path. I live with four (count em) cats, and everybody has their own opinion about what I should do here.

Now Max (who is at this moment checking out my typing skills) tells me that I should be translating this really important dream he just had. It could change the world! (Well, that's what he says, anyway). While Rocky just wants to get cat fur all over the keys, if that means he can get some uninterrupted face scratching time. If not, he'll just start pulling things off the bulletin board (which is convienently located just to his right) I've told him this is negative attention getting behavior, but he just laughs and rolls over on his back, assuming the most adorable cat in the world pose.

Me, well, I have this rediculous urge to write about writing. Silly me.

The other day, I went to the trailer supply place to order an AC unit and a real refrigerator for my little Scamp trailer so that I can actually go camping in Hilton-like comfort. (what? I asked myself, am I waiting for? Until I'm too old to camp anymore before I deserve all these goodies?) There was a guy in there who wants to be a writer. He would retire from a physically challanging job and make a living writing... I was laughing so hard I dissapeared below the counter. Make a living? Writing? HA!

I know from my own experience, and from the conversations I've had with other writers that: That's not why we write! Writing is an obsession, a drive, a blessing and sometimes a curse (Arrgh! when you're facing the blank page, and thinking about ALL the other really important things you could be doing. i.e. laundry, going to the store, finding out what that annoying clicking noise is, etc) But no, the real job is to just plant your butt in a chair and stare blankly out the window until words actually show up to keep you company. Then, if you're lucky, something magic happens and the words just take off, dragging you along with them like a plastic bag wobbling in the wind, caught on the underside of your car.

I have about a zillion inspiring little notes in my office to keep me in that chair.

For example, "Everybody walks past a thousand story ideas every day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don't see any."--Orson Scott Card ...or..."Every writer I know has trouble writing."--Joseph Heller

I just got back from a writers conference in Arizona, and even the big guns there said the same thing. Nice to know I'm not alone.

This blocking thing is one of the biggest bitches most writers have. The other one, of course, is GETTING PUBLISHED. (Obsessive lusting after vindication) I've been published a little, but not enough. Is any momentary vindication ever enough? So, since I live in fear of rejection notices (no matter how polite they may be or how much I know even the Beattles got rejected a million times before they got famous) and I ain't gettin' any younger here, I guess this is one place I can damn well sure publish anything I want. Therefore and forthwith, here's todays scribblings. Thank you.


(Oh, FYI all scribblings and writings are copyright C.Callaghan 2007)
(PS I haven't figured out how to get this to format the way I actully wrote it, OR to add a comment box for you to click on, but hey, this is still a work in progress so bear with me.)


Elaine and Don

Elaine sat on the new couch in her living room in Mill Valley and cried. Her husband Don stuck his head in the door and said, “Where’s my blue shirt?”
“It’s in the car,” she said.
“In the car? Jesus!”

She could hear him stomp through the kitchen, and slam open the door into the garage. Open the car door, cuss—slam the car door, cuss—stomp up the stairs, cuss. She stopped sobbing for the fifteen minutes it took him to put his shirt on, grab his tie and jacket, stomp back down the stairs, and get into the Beamer. Garage door-opening, car backing out, garage door closing.

She put her head in her hands and cried some more, sometimes moaning long ahh’s, sometimes a ha, a ha, a ha, staccato bursts that were so close to a laugh they could have sat side by side on the couch. She cried for an hour and eight minutes, then got up and cleaned the house.

Elaine’s mother used to say, “Nothing like a clean house to chase the blues away.” Today Elaine said, “Oh ma, you were so wrong.”




Don

Why is she crying in there? There’s nothing to cry about. We’ve got a good life. The house is almost paid off; the kids have moved on into their own lives, we just bought a new car. Paid cash for it too.

I asked her where my blue shirt is. That’s all, that’s all I said. She tells me, “In the car.” In the car? What kind of shit is that? I’m already late, I’ve got like 10 seconds to get on the road or I’ll be late for work and my blue shirt is in the car? I don’t understand what her problem is, I really don’t. And I sure as hell don’t have time to ask her because I know what’ll happen if I do. She’ll close up tight as a clam and it’ll take three hours to pry anything out of her. Even then it’ll be so all over the place, I’ll have no idea what she’s talking about and this could go on for days.

I just don’t have time for this, I’m gonna be late for work as it is.




Elaine

The phone rings and Elaine just sits there counting the rings. One, two, three, five, six, ten. Then she reaches over and picks it up figuring that anybody who would still be letting it ring is either very determined or wants to sell her something. It’s her friend Clarice who is stubborn enough to let the phone ring fifty times if that’s how long it takes for Elaine to answer. They have the same conversation they’ve been having every day for the last three weeks.
“Still crying?”
“Yes.”
“Has he asked you why yet?”
“No.”
“Do you think he ever will?”

“I don’t think he knows how anymore,” Elaine says. Clarice knows exactly how Elaine is feeling and why. Elaine knows that her friend would like to come over to the house and explain the whole thing to Don in great detail, or at least beat the crap out of him for being so clueless, but has told her not to do either one. Elaine has told her that the point, the whole point really, is that he isn’t paying enough attention to see there is a problem much less know how important it is that he figure it out.

Clarice asks her, “Is this a guy thing, or a Don thing?”

And Elaine tells her, “It’s a person thing. I didn’t have to tell you, did I?” Elaine has developed this theory that people shouldn’t have to be led to asking the right questions, they should be able to figure it out for themselves.

In fact, Elaine believes that she has spent way too much of her life gently trying to get people like her husband to see the most glaringly obvious things. But it’s begun to feel like leading a toddler up to a giant billboard and asking him to explain what it says when he can’t even read. At this point in her life, she doesn’t want to waste any more of her time on anybody who can’t even read.

Clarice not only agrees with her, she came to the same conclusion by herself. Which is why if Elaine wants to go into the city and wander around Golden Gate Park for the day, she’ll call Clarice. And if Clarice decides to take the ferry over to Vallejo to tour the art galleries and have dinner, she’ll call Elaine. Neither wants to spend the day leading someone around by the hand.

Clarice says, “I’m coming over to get you. I need to go sit on the harbor rocks in Sausalito and I don’t want to be alone.” And then she hangs up, knowing that in the fifteen minutes it will take her to get down the hill to Elaine’s house, her friend will have changed into her old jeans and boots, pulled out her blue parka with the Rolling Stones tongue patch on it and be sitting on the front stoop, her hands in her pockets.




Don

This whole day has just been the pits. Not only has Elaine been crying for weeks, but when I finally got out of the house and on the road, the traffic was even worse than it usually is. Some jerk had run into one of the tollbooths on the bridge and I could have walked across it faster than I was driving. I could have walked across it two or three times. There was only one southbound tollbooth open, because some other jerk had tried to cut over to avoid the crash and caused another wreck. So before I even got past the first tower, it was a parking lot.

It’s a good thing a local TV crew took pictures of the whole thing from their helicopter or old man Stinson might have fired every one of us who live in Marin County. Some of those guys in accounting who live way north of me didn’t get in till almost eleven. Thank God Elaine and I bought when we did.

I love my job, been here twenty-seven years next January, one of the best architecture firms in the city. I think Stinson hated my guts on sight, tried to blackball me from getting hired, called me a young upstart. Nobody talked like that, even then. He can still get to me; make me feel about 16. It was Bullock who brought me into the fold over Stinson’s objection, and Stinson has never forgiven him, or me. I didn’t realize how much Bullock ran interference for me until he had that last heart attack in ’05 and had to retire. Stinson’s been in my face every day since then. Some days I just want to punch him right in his Nob Hill nose.

For the last two months I’ve been watching that guy Jeffery Wilson from the fifth floor, following Stinson around like a devoted servant. It’s sickening. Always just behind him, but right at his elbow, ready to toady up. If Jeff stops by my office to bring me specs for a job we’re working on, I can see him looking over my drafting table with a proprietary interest.

It’s a given that I’m going to have to work late again tonight, I’ve got this pile of paperwork sitting on my desk from the Rhodes job that should have been taken care of last week. Don’t even get me started on the phone messages; see that in-tray? It’s higher than my blood pressure.

What I’d really like to do is drive back over the bridge right now, throw my skis in the car and head out to Tahoe for a month. Elaine would like that; she loves Tahoe. I wonder if she’s just depressed, you know, that empty-nest syndrome thing everybody seems to be talking about these days. All this crying, God, I hope it isn’t anything physiological. She has lost a little weight, but you’d think she’d be glad about that. Aren’t women always bitching about being overweight?

We’ll talk when I get home. Just sit on the couch and talk things out, I’ll hold her hand and we’ll talk.




Elaine

Elaine and Clarice sit on the rocks in Sausalito for two and a half hours before the wind picks up and the fog rolls in under the Golden Gate. Then they adjourn to the Windjammer bar where they can sit and watch the sailboats run in. Elaine had stopped crying out on the rocks, the sailboats had driven it out of her. She loved Clarice for knowing that would happen.

Clarice picks up her wine glass and twirls it around in her blunt fingers. “Will you leave him?” she asks her friend.
“No. It hasn’t gotten that bad yet,” Elaine answers.

“Yet. How bad does it have to get?” They stare out at the boats rolling through the chop, like that word in their brains.

“Remember that summer at Tahoe? That crappy little trailer park with the Airstreams laid out in a ragged row along the beach?” They laugh. “I don’t think we spent fifteen minutes inside, we lived on that beach.”

“The last time Don and I went up there, we looked for it. It’s all condos and private beaches now, gates and security guards. It made me so mad. We didn’t know how good we had it.” Elaine says.
“No, we didn’t,” Clarice says, thinking about how good it had been then, but also how bad, they just hadn’t seen it.

“Although God knows the damage we did to our skin with all that baby oil. Paul and Don would go out fishing all day and you and I would sit on the beach baking, not one of us with a hat on. We were ridiculously naive.” Elaine looks over at Clarice’s tightened face and reaches out a hand to her friend, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay, you can say his name, it’s been a long time since my ‘yet’. I think about him you know, sometimes, up in Sacramento or wherever he is now. I wonder if he stuck with AA. I wonder if he figured out why he tried to screw every woman who lived.” Clarice looks over at Elaine, smiles her big smile and says, “I wonder if he got VD?” And they both crack up.

They order another glass of wine and watch the last of the boats tack past the restaurant, the waiter hovers too close. “He wants us to leave so he can get a rich lawyer and his wife seated for dinner.” Elaine leans in close to Clarice, whispering loudly. “Why do all waiters think that women don’t tip? Let’s eat here just to piss him off. We can leave him a dollar on the table and an outrageous tip with the maitre de.”

“You are the most wicked person I know,” Clarice grins. “I would love to.”

They have a sinfully leisurely dinner and two more glasses of wine each. They talk about kids, global-warming, how much Sausalito has changed, and how lucky they are still to be friends after all these years. They watch through the window as the furious waiter marches up to the maitre de to complain about the dollar tip and they relish his shock when he gets the real tip. And then they run off down the sidewalk arm in arm like two kids, shouting out their victory.

When Clarice drops Elaine off at her house, she gets out of her car and they hug, one of those hugs that sustain. “Call me tomorrow, let me know how it goes,” she says. “I will,” Elaine promises. “Hey you! Do you know how much I love you?” she shouts. She doesn’t need an answer.




Don

I didn’t leave the office till almost ten. I got the Rhodes paperwork done and all the phone calls returned. Spent more than an hour with that guy on the Protrero Street project, and I think I’ve got it nailed. He specifically asked me to work up some preliminary sketches for him, wait till I tell Elaine.

Jeff must have come by my office five times, fat lot of good it’ll do him. He should have been paying attention to his own desk, talk about a backlog.

One good thing about working late is missing the rush hour traffic. Tonight it seemed like there was just me and ten or fifteen other cars in the whole city. I took route one through the Presidio and there was the bridge all lit up. I forget how beautiful that bridge is when I’m bumper to bumper on it twice a day.

When I got on the Marin side, I pulled into the Ft. Baker viewpoint-- I couldn’t help it. I got out of the car and sat on the warm hood, just staring at the bridge and the bay and wishing I still smoked. It had been a good thing to do, sit on the hood of your car smoking and admiring the view. Elaine and I used to come there when we were young and broke; we called it the cheapest movie in the world. It’s been years.




I think I need to get home. I think I’ve got to talk to Elaine. Maybe she’ll still be up even though it is late. I don’t care if it takes three hours or three days. It’ll take as long as it takes. And then we’ll figure out how to fix it, just like we’ve always done.




Elaine

Don isn’t home. She knows it as soon as she opens the door. The Beamer could have been in the garage, but she knows it isn’t. He’s been working late a lot and she doesn’t know if it’s because he has to, or if he’s avoiding her and her crying jags. Briefly she thinks of Clarice’s failed marriage and all the nights Paul hadn’t even bothered to come home. She knows Don isn’t like that. He’d never do that to her.

She wants to ask him if this long, slow decline into anonymity with each other is what he really wants, but then he’d ask her why she’s asking now. She wants to yell at him, “Get a grip, get a clue, figure it out!” But even if he were home, she wouldn’t do it. She feels like one of those boats on the bay, sails flapping, no engine, no crew. She doesn’t know how to explain this feeling of being lost at sea. She shouldn’t have to explain it. She’s exhausted and needs to get some sleep.

She knows that she’s had too much wine and any minute now she’s going to start crying again. She can’t afford that; she’s got to be ready for tomorrow. She climbs the stairs to the bedroom wondering if she’s putting her feet in the same places on the treads his were on this morning. When she gets upstairs it’s all she can do to peel off everything but her tee shirt and crawl into bed. After laying there staring at the ceiling for thirty minutes, she reaches for the pill box on her nightstand takes out one of the sleeping pills that Clarice gave her, pops it into her mouth and swallows it dry. She’s terrified of tomorrow but she really needs to get some sleep.




Don

It was after midnight when I got home; I knew she’d be asleep. I couldn’t shake this feeling that we really needed to talk so I was pretty noisy in the bathroom and undressing. Elaine sleeps light, always has. Usually if I just gargle really loud, that’ll wake her up, but not tonight. I even dropped my shoes from shoulder height.

I didn’t get too worried until I actually shook her shoulder and she didn’t open her eyes. That’s when I saw the pill bottle and the pills. I shook her and shook her and she wouldn’t wake up. I don’t think I’ve been that freaked out since Kyle had a temp of 102 when he was four. I called 911 and could hardly tell the operator our address I was crying so hard. Jesus! What would I do without Elaine?

I just hung on to her until the paramedics came. When they asked me what she’d taken, how many, I told them I had no idea. I showed them the bottle I’d found with Clarice’s name on it, sleeping pills. God, I was so mad when I called her, the paramedic had to take the phone away from me. Clarice swore that she’d only given Elaine three pills, and there were still two in there. She said it probably knocked her out because they’d had so much wine.

The paramedics packed up their gear, they’d checked all her vitals and Elaine was fine, they said, just really asleep. They kept giving me these weird looks. The guy who’d yanked the phone out of my hand patted my shoulder and told me I ought to get some sleep too. After I shut the door behind them I went up to our room and sat on the bed next to my wife. I sat there all night, just watching her sleep. Even after Clarice called and told me about the doctor’s appointment the next day, (no, it was already the next day), I watched her. It couldn’t be uterine cancer, it couldn’t. Not my Elaine, not my girl.

It’s funny how much communication can happen between two people when one of them is sound asleep. I’m going to call Stinson in a while and tell him I won’t be in for at least a week. Then I’m going to call that place in Tahoe and rent the cabin. No matter what the doctor says, I know Elaine will like going there. We can sit out on the deck and watch the boats. And then we’ll talk, just like we used to.

I’ll hold her hand and we’ll figure it out together. I think she’ll like that.