Page 16 - The Myth and the Moment

Morning

“I think we helped each other a great deal, Nate. We had a much
longer run with me seducing Professor Hammerklavier in the second
act. The critics loved it. The people loved it. Your message reached
hundreds of people instead of just a couple of dozen.”
Not my message. Yours.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And now you tell me you’ve given it all up. Really, Nate: I don’t
believe it. I can’t see you spending eight hours a day like some college
drop-out or a surfer beach-bum, driving around town in a dirty old
truck, up to your elbows in chemicals and eucalyptus leaves.”
“It’s not really—”
“And the rest of your time: do you sit around feeling sorry for
yourself, drinking beer and watching sports and re-runs on TV?
Never another thought for your great talent, for the influence you
might be exerting on young minds? Are you really that selfish?”
Goddamn it!
“Please. If I didn’t really know you, what makes you think you
know me? I’m still writing, whether you or anyone else is reading or
not. I don’t drink beer and I don’t own a television set.”
And I don’t want to be saying all this.
“Oh.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
For the timely entrance.
“Figured you could do with a bit of cold refreshment on a hot day
like this. Did I hear you say you were writing some kind of script?
Do you have an agent?”
“No, no, no. I’m just puttering around, nothing serious. I don’t
have the energy or ambition to make it out in the jungle anymore.”
“Now, that’s too bad. You weren’t burnt out or anything, were
you, Nate? I mean, did you get a lot of rejection slips from the
publishers?”
“No more than anyone else in those days, Phil. I’m not pleading
any special case for myself. I just grew away from the scene after,
well, after things in my life changed in the Seventies.”
No life-history for you, my friends.
“But you’re still the same underneath it all, Nate. I’ll bet you still
have those old notebooks you used to carry around with all your
sketches and poems and ideas for plays.”

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