"You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of 'The Man'", said The Man.
"But that ain't no matter", he continued with a sly smile on his face. "You will read!"
Then, he stood up straight and paced towards his room. He opened the door slowly and walked into the room calmly. It was dark.
with apologies to Log and anyone else figuring in this novel. . . . uhhhhh hummmmmmm. . . . . this story is pure fiction and any correspondences with any real person is purely the product of an insanely fertile wild imagination running loose somewhere under some anonymous skull in some other galaxy. . . .
///// { all real authors know how to revise and edit and expand upon any point, given a little room to wiggle}\\\\\
Chapter One
Log wanted to roll. . . . to end this senseless day, and a thousand senseless days. . . . right here and now, in Reno. Hell Town on the wrong side of the Sierra, the human cesspool of Sacramento. . . .so he ordered another beer. . . . . if only he could just fade away into the mudflats like the river, and be done. DONE.
"Hey Bud, why so glum?"
A wretched stinking man had taken the stool next to him, wearing a stupid yellow trenchcoat no less. . . and was trying to be cheerful.
"My God", Log moaned, "Another optimist. . . . . and I thought things just couldn't get worse. . . . "
"Cheer up, buddy. It can't be as bad as you look . . . . " pressed the irrepressible Smile sitting on the Stool of Fools next to him . . . .
"Look, man. . . . just drool in your own beer, OK???" Log was measuring out his rage, saving the best for later. . . . .
"So you already know who I am, do you?" the fool began. . . ."That's the first step in the journey of ten thousand tortures. . . ."
"Man, you're no novelist" Log asserted. . . . struggling with an inexplicable urge to say "grasshopper", pretty sure The Man wasn't Chinese or a philosopher. . . .
"You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of "
The Man", said The Man. "But that ain't no matter", he continued with a sly smile on his his face. "You will read!"
"Don't try to tell me you can write", Log retorted. "You can't even speak English".
"Well suit yourself, friend", as he pulled a book out from his overcoat. . . . Shoving it into Log's hands, he rose from the stool, took his beer in one gulp, turned and walked out. . . . leaving Log amazed at this sudden turn for the better. . . . his depression was gone, and somehow Reno suddenly had been transformed into an intriguing place. . . . .
Then, he, too stood up, and gulped his beer in one gulp. . . . With the book in hand he strode out the door into the smoke-choked August mountain air blowing in from some damn forest fire somewhere. . . . . just in the nick of time. There was his wife's best friend. . . . and his wife. . . . coming to drag him home. He was collared.
No way outta this. . . . and his depression came crashing down on him once again, with renewed force. . . .
"Now I'd really better cheer up," he thought, desperately grasping for some sensible line of action. . ."
"Where've you been, hon", his wife querried, trying to be pleasant, and eyeing the book Log was still grasping. . . . "The Library?"
"uhhhh. . . . . uhhhhh. . . . . ya, right", he croaked, as his wife took him by his arm and led him to the car. . . .
"Oh, so are you going to read it with me?" It was her smile that left him speechless, like it always did. . . . That uncomprehending smile that was more of a prison than bars of iron could ever make. . . . the whole reason why the damn Truckee looked like a passage to paradise. . . to a salt flat of pure nothing. . . .
The girls chatted about the trees in Yosemite. . . . or maybe it was butterflies. . . . all the way home. They both wanted him to be the center of their life, the father of their kids. . . . they were the new age women of liberty who by rights oughtta have everything they dream of in life. . . . . and the book was about all he could control. . . .
And Log suddenly saw it as his ticket to some peace and quiet tonight after all . . . .
The girls had some soup and crackers and chatted some more about his kid, and how if they worked together they could both keep their jobs and have more kids, too. . . .
Log stood up, loitered around the fridge for a moment. . . . then stood straighter, clutched his book, and casually muttered something about maybe reading it. . . . and drifted outta the door to the hall, and practically raced towards his room, and threw the door open, and then himself in, and slammed it shut, tight, and turned the lock. . . .
The sweet sweet air of freedom, after all. . . . . It was dark.
