Page 14 - Asheville NC Revised2

population — funs, arrows or sterilization? While other neighborhoods worried about violent crime, frenzied traffic or encroaching development, the major worry of the Belmonteans was too many Bambi’s.
Grace lived in a relatively modest ranch house. Her door was uncharacter- istically open, it usually being bolted shut with a complicated alarm set-up. A note said: “Dan, come down to the basement.”
I did. She was wading in about two inches of water like a beautiful crane. “Afraid we have a complication,” she said. “The hot water heater has become artesian well.”
“Let’s unplug all the electricity immediately!” I said, noticing the water lapping around the sockets. We did. I watched her fine body bend and unplug and was filled with gratitude. Me, currently lower class riffraff, was sharing an intimate moment with the best that the second richest town per capita in North Carolina could bestow. A funky little down-east town called Rex was the only wealthier.
“Nice computer,” I said, looking at a state-of-the-art Macintosh. “Do you edit from the screen or from printouts?” I could assume she wrote at least a diary. A good chunk of Asheville’s population were struggling writers, if only for an avocation.
“Always the screen,” she said. “Saves paper.”
“Edit from paper,” I said. “Nothing better than having about ten clean pages and a red pen. What bliss to discover an irrelevant paragraph and x it out of existence. I’m not sure you can really see what’s going on from electronic blips.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Just wish I were using it more. A couple of weeks ago I did finish a short story for a contest. Want to read it?”
“Sure.”
“We better get out of here,” she added. “Just because we unplugged everything doesn’t mean the electricity won’t leak from the sockets when the water gets to them. Does it?”
“I have no idea.”
We took off our wet shoes and climbed the stairs. She handed me a story about a woman preparing for a speech to a room full of coat-and-tie corporate men. Just before the presentation the heroine ducked into the bathroom and had wildly creative sex with her lover. Then she straightened her clothes, sashayed into the male multitudes and delivered an acclaimed speech.
I was at a loss. Then grabbing my brain by the throat I ordered it to spit out some compliments. “Very dramatic,” I said. “The contrast of raw sex with uptight Western Civilization effectively shows that the power of your erotica is superior to two hundred years of button-down business.”
“Sounds dubious,” she said. “Just hope it gets honorable mention.”