Hey, he says, Charlie. What the hell are you doing out here? Whats up?
ONE
HEY, HE SAYS, Charlie. What the hell are you doing here? Whats up?
Sitting down next to him, I can see his glasses, which reflect the last crescent of the moon and a dim shooting star. In the half-dark he has a handsome mild face, thick curly hair and an easy disarming smile, like that of a bank loan officer who has not quite decided whether your credit history is worthy of you. His eyes are large and pensive, toadlike. I realize quickly that if he is sitting out here on this park bench, now, he must be a rather unlucky man, insomniac or haunted or heartsick.
Hey, Bradley, I say. Not much. Walkin around. Its a midsummer night, and Ive got insomnia. I see youre still awake, too.
Yeah, he says, nodding unnecessarily, thats the truth.
We both wait. Finally I ask him, How come youre up?
Me? Oh, I found myself working late on a window in my house. The sash weight broke loose from the pulley and Ive been trying to get it out from inside the wall.
Difficult job.
Right. Anyway, I quit that, and Ive been walking Bradley the dog, since I couldnt fix the window. Do you remember this dog?
His name is what?
Bradley. I just told you. Exact same as mine. Its easier to call him Junior. That way, theres no confusion. Hes my company. But youre not sleeping either, right? he asks, staring off into the middle distance as if he were talking to himself, as if I were an intimation of him. That makes the two of us. He leans back. Three of us, if you count the dog.
I woke up, I tell him, and I was seeing things.
What things?
I dont want to talk about it, I tell him.
Okay.
Oh, you know. I was seeing spots.
Spots?
Yes. Like spots in front of your eyes. But these were more like cogs.
You mean like gears or something?
I guess so. Wheels with cogs turning, and then getting closer to each other, so that they all turned together, their gears meshing. I rub my arm, mosquito bite.
In the shadows, one side of his face seems about to collapse, as if the effort to keep up appearances has finally failed and daylight optimism has abandoned him. He sighs and scratches Junior behind the ears. In response, the dog smiles broadly. Gears. I never heard of that one. I guess you dont sleep any better than I do. Were two members of the insomnia army. He stretches now and reaches up to grab some air. A brotherhood. And sisterhood. Did you know that Marlene Dietrich was a great insomniac?
No, I didnt.
Do you know what she did to keep herself occupied at night?
No, I dont.
She baked cakes, he tells me. I read this in the Sunday paper. She baked angel food cakes and then in the daytime she gave them away to her friends. Marlene Dietrich. She looked like she did, those eyes of hers, because she couldnt sleep well. Now me, he says, rearranging himself on the bench, I just sit still here, very still, you know, like whats-his-name, the compassionate Buddha, thinking about the world, the one you and I live in, and I come to conclusions. Conclusions and remedies. Lately Ive been thinking of extreme remedies. For extreme problems we need extreme remedies. Thats the phrase.
Extreme remedies? What dyou mean? And dont go putting me in your brotherhood. Im just on a neighborhood stroll.
A neighborhood stroll! Man, he says, pointing a revolver-finger at me, youll be lucky if a patrol car doesnt pick you up.
Oh, Im respectable, I tell him.
Listen to yourself. Respectable! Youre dressed like a vagabond. A goon. Its illegal to walk around at night in this town, didnt you know that? He stands up to give me an inquiring once-over. He apparently doesnt like what he sees. It makes you look like a danger to public safety. Vagrancy! Theyll haul your ass down to jail, man. They dont allow it anymore unless you have a dog with you. The dog he nods at his own dog makes it legal. The dog makes it legitimate. I have a dog. You should have a dog. Its best to have an upper-class dog like a collie or a golden retriever, a licensed dog. But any dog will do. Believe me, the happy people are all at home and asleep, snuggled together in their dreams. He says this phrase with contempt. All the lucky ones. He sits down but still seems agitated. The goddamn lucky ones Whats your trouble? He grins at me gnomishly. Conscience bothering you? Got a writing block?
Extreme remedies? What dyou mean? And dont go putting me in your brotherhood. Im just on a neighborhood stroll.
A neighborhood stroll! Man, he says, pointing a revolver-finger at me, youll be lucky if a patrol car doesnt pick you up.
Oh, Im respectable, I tell him.
Listen to yourself. Respectable! Youre dressed like a vagabond. A goon. Its illegal to walk around at night in this town, didnt you know that? He stands up to give me an inquiring once-over. He apparently doesnt like what he sees. It makes you look like a danger to public safety. Vagrancy! Theyll haul your ass down to jail, man. They dont allow it anymore unless you have a dog with you. The dog he nods at his own dog makes it legal. The dog makes it legitimate. I have a dog. You should have a dog. Its best to have an upper-class dog like a collie or a golden retriever, a licensed dog. But any dog will do. Believe me, the happy people are all at home and asleep, snuggled together in their dreams. He says this phrase with contempt. All the lucky ones. He sits down but still seems agitated. The goddamn lucky ones Whats your trouble? He grins at me gnomishly. Conscience bothering you? Got a writing block?
No. I told you. I woke up disoriented. It happens all the time. Thinking about a book, I guess. I have to walk it off. Anyway, I already have a dog.
I didnt know that. Where is it? He glances around, pretending to search.
Sleeping. She doesnt like to walk with me at night. She doesnt like how disoriented I am.
Smart. So what youre saying is, you dont know where you are? Is that it?
Right. I know where I am now.
Maybe youre too involved with fiction. Well, dont mind me. But listen, since were here, tell me: how does this new book of yours begin? Whats the first line?
I start to pick some chewing gum off my shoe. Nope. I dont do that. I dont give things like that away.
Come on. Im your neighbor, Charlie. Ive known you, what is it ?
Twelve years, I say.
Twelve years. You think Im going to steal your line? I would never do that. I dont do that. Im not a writer, thank God. Im a businessman. And an artist. Go ahead. Just tell me. Tell me how your novel starts.
I sit back for a moment. The man, I recite, me no one else, it seems wakes in fright.
He kicks the toe of his shoe in the dirt and tanbark, and Junior sniffs at it. Now Bradley tries out a sympathetic tone. Thats the line?
Thats the line. Its still in rough draft. Actually, its just in my head.
He nods. Kind of melodramatic, though, right? I thought it was a cardinal rule not to start a novel with someone waking up in bed. And whats all this about fright? Do you really awaken in terror? That doesnt seem like you at all. And by the way I believe the word is awakens.
Irritated, I stare at him. When did you become Mr. Usage? All right, Ill revise it. Besides, I do wake in terror. Ask my wife.
No, I would never do that. Whats the book called?
I have no idea.
You should call it The Feast of Love. Im the expert on that. I should write that book. Actually, I should be in that book. You should put me into your novel. Im an expert on love. Ive just broken up with my second wife, after all. Im in an emotional tangle. Maybe Id shoot myself before the final chapter. Your readers would wonder about the outcome. Yeah, the feast of love. It certainly isnt what I expected when I was in high school and I was imagining what love was going to be, honeymoon jaunts, joy forever and that sort of thing.
I glance at the dog, who is yawning in my face. I bore this dog. Arent you going out with a doctor now? Some new woman?
Thats private.
Hey, you came up with the title, and then you decide I cant have it because its a metaphor? And you want to be a character in this book, and you wont give me the details of your love life?
Metaphor my ass. I dont know. Call it The Feast of Love. I know: call it Unchain My Heart. Now theres a good title. Call it anything you want to. But remember: metaphors mean something, he says, sitting up. Junior also sits up. You remember Kathryn, my ex? My first ex? When Kathryn called me a toad, which she did sometimes to punish me, Im sure she chose that metaphor carefully. She took great care with her language. She was fastidious. She probably searched for that metaphor all day. She went shopping for metaphors, Kathryn did. X marked the spot where she found them. Then she displayed them, all these metaphors, to me. After a while it became her nickname for me, as in Toad, my love, would you pass the potatoes? They were always about me, these metaphors, as it turned out. She got that one from The Wind in the Willows, her favorite book. You know: Mr. Toad?
He says this in his low voice and surveys the gloom of the playground, and now, in the dark, he does sound a bit like a toad.
It could have been worse, he informs me. A toad has dignity. He looks around. Then he breaks into song.
The Clever Men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed
But they none of them know one
half as much
As intelligent Mr. Toad.
Anyway, I got on her nerves after a while. And of course, she was a lesbian, sort of, a little bit of one, a sexual tourist, but we could have handled the tourism part, given enough time. At least thats what I thought. The real problem was that she didnt like how inconsistent I was. She thought I was the man of a thousand faces, nice in the morning, not so nice at night. Men like me exasperated her. She once called me the Lon Chaney of the Midwest, the Lon Chaney with the monster light bulb burning inside his cheekbone. The phantom, she called me, of the opera. He waits for a moment. What opera? Theres no opera in this town.
He stares up into the night sky, then continues. Well, at least I was a star. You know, women admire physical beauty in men more than they claim they do. He says this to me conspiratorially, as if imparting a deep secret. He sighs. Dont kid yourself on that score.
I would never kid myself about that, I tell him. This isnt Diana youre talking about? This is Kathryn?
No, he sighs angrily, not Diana. Of course not. No, goddamn it, I told you: this was my first. My starter marriage. You met her, I know that. Kathryn.
No, I say, I dont remember her. But you werent married to Diana so long either.