Writer Interruptus

By Philip Lear

I’ve been at my desktop all afternoon trying to write a short story, but I keep getting distracted. The Yankee/Angel game is on television and I’m looking at stock charts on my notebook.

My desk is a pile of newspaper clippings and articles that I've been meaning to read. I keep them because occasionally, very occasionally, I get a kernel of an idea for a story. I start going through them. Here's one from the Wall Street Journal on building a do-it-yourself portfolio. It’s dated March 6, 2003 and now it’s October of 2006. I ball it up and toss it.

Below that one’s another article that's really old. This clipping is about jazz bands from the 60s. What’s this? I don’t know anything about cool Jazz. I turn it over and there’s a name and phone number scribbled on the back. It says ‘Call Ray – 555-973-7182.’ Who’s Ray? I don’t know any Rays. I dial the number. It’s Ray’s Plumbing and Heating.

While I'm sitting here other things pop into my head. Preposterous as it may seem I'm also thinking about flying to California to visit Susan. It’s been six years but I still long for her. We lived together for such a long time. I wanted to marry her, but she was too into her acting career. When we broke up I moved back East. We kept in touch for several years. I even flew out there and spent one Thanksgiving with her. But when she got married I stopped calling. The last thing I heard was that she was divorced, but that was three years ago. I know it’s short notice but I haven't seen Sue in ages. I dial. There’s a recording, ‘This number has been disconnected.’ I call Los Angeles information and they have no number for her. Another piece of my life has slipped off the edge of the earth.

Here's one about bio-fueling cars in China. They’re using casaba melon roots to produce ethanol. Casaba melons? Is this a joke? I try to visualize the millions of miles of melon fields. How many casaba melons does it take to make a gallon?

I look at the other side of my desk and there’s a notice of the privacy policy from the American Automobile Association. They’ve got to remind me that they respect my privacy? I find it kind of insulting. I ball it up and toss it across the room.

Next to it is a pink dry cleaning slip with my name on it. It says my two pair of pants and my one striped shirt will be ready on Tuesday March 3, 2005. It’s been there for more than a year. It’s not that I forgot or I’m busy. I drive by that place often, but somehow can’t stop.

On the TV the Anaheim Angels are beating the Yankees. It's the sixth inning and Randy Johnson’s pitching. Watching the Yankees lose is very exciting. They always win. I wonder about Yankee fans and what makes them tick. They’re not real sports fans. The word sport means contest and when things are one-sided there’s no contest.

The TV camera pans in on the Angel dugout and Mike's Scoiscia, the manager is sitting in the dugout picking his nose. The camera pans over to the third base coach who looks like he’s scratching his balls. I love it. Even though it’s the game of the week and 40 million people are watching, these guys are out there acting like it was a Sunday softball game.

I’ve been neglecting my physical exercise and feel guilty. What the hell’s wrong with me? It’s been weeks since I went up on the treadmill. My God! The thing is sitting there right next to my desk. If I reached out I could touch it. Yet I can’t seem to pull the trigger. With a sudden burst of resolve I say to myself, ‘It’s now or never’.

I do some leg stretching exercises and get up on the treadmill. When I press the start button but nothing happens. Then I realize it’s not plugged in. I plug it in and it starts but there’s a horrible screeching noise. It’s the belt. It hasn’t been lubricated in years. I don't know whether to stop and place a service call or continue. I start walking and as I speed it up the noise disappears. I move the speed up to three and one half miles an hour and after ten minutes I’m starting to feel fine. My leg muscles are loosening up.

The Yankees are out in the sixth and there’s a commercial break. It’s about two guys eating in a Chinese buffet. The older guy, Uncle Ernie, is at the buffet table holding the tongs longingly looking down at the spicy duck. Suddenly he drops the tongs in the duck and clutches his chest. He looks like he’s having a heart attack. His nephew whose been sitting in the booth watching his uncle comes running up to the buffet table and hands Ernie a big blue bottle of antacids.

In the next scene they are back in the booth eating the spicy duck. They’re both in Moo Shoo heaven. The duck looks so delicious that my mouth is watering. That’s the end of the workout. I get off the treadmill and dial China Magic. They tell me I’m number seven and it’ll be ready in ten minute.

Like all the stuff on my desk and in my life, the idea of writing has been pushed into the background overlaid by piles of other things. And for the moment, I’ve forgotten about it completely.