and they will come.’ ”
Ned said, “You don’t seem to think there’s anything hard about writing.”
“Oh, I sure do,” Jamie said, picking at the label of her beer bottle. “Page numbering, that’s the hardest thing to do: number the fucking pages. This one I’m doing now. I wound up with two 198s. I’m just lucky the first 198 is the end of a chapter and there are only two lines on it. That means all I have to do is excise the two lines.”
Saul had laughed. “For God’s sakes, Jamie. If you put in the two lines in the first place, I’d think you’d consider them a little necessary.”
“Oh, pul- eze. Don’t pull that pompous every-word’s-set-in-stone writing crap with me. The only two lines I think are necessary are the first two lines of ‘Cry.’ ”
And she’d trotted off to Swill’s jukebox to play it again.
TEN
N ed was sitting that morning on the flaking green bench, always the same bench, in the little park, watching people going off to their jobs in other parts of the city, hurrying down subway stairs, rushing to catch buses just pulling away, stopping at newsstands, hailing cabs, lurching in and out of delicatessens and Krispy Kreme with paper cups and sacks and cartons. He liked to watch all of this. There was so much preparation for something other than jobs, something to take up the slack between desk and work, something filling—newsprint, doughnuts. There had to be something to move a person from the fecund mysteries of sleep, through the harried showering and shaving and dressing, to the harsh elliptical light above the desk. Something had to cushion the blow of a job.
Especially on a Monday, and especially one that promised to be oppressive, the sky cold and gray. He was happy to sit in isolation here (sometimes wondering why the park got so little foot traffic) and watch all of this. He felt lucky not be to be part of it. Yet he understood the need for that buffer between waking and settling into work. He had his own cup of coffee, cooling beside him on the bench, and watching all of this early-morning hurry was itself a kind of shield between him and his writing.
Ned picked up the part of the manuscript he’d been carrying, got out a pencil, clicked the lead into place. He enjoyed that click of a lead pencil or pen; it sounded so obedient, granting him control.
Which of course he didn’t have, for the click was all there was.
Instead of Paris and Nathalie’s dilemma, he was thinking of Pittsburgh. Ned was born in Pittsburgh. He remembered so little about it, and this haunted him. How can a person live in a place for seventeen years and not remember it?
After half an hour of this, of thinking about Pittsburgh instead of proofreading his manuscript, he decided to go to Saul’s house.
Saul came to the door wearing slippers (calfskin), a cardigan (cashmere), and smoking a cigar (Cuban). No matter what time of day, whenever Ned saw him, Saul always looked dressed for something—some expensive, exclusive place no one else knew about. It was as if he had a men’s club in his mind. But Ned knew Saul never strove for effects; this was simply the way he’d been brought up.
“How about some coffee?” said Saul. “Go on into the living room; I’ll bring it in.”
His great-grandfather had been rich; his grandfather had taken that and made the family richer; his father had reshuffled the money and made himself the richest yet. Ned did not know how much money Saul had, but he knew it was plenty. Lawyers, accountants, money managers—they handled things. Ned doubted that Saul even knew what he was worth. In any event, all of that entrepreneurial magic had ended with Saul. He spoke of himself as the end of it. He spoke of this so often that he’d finally used the phrase as his book title.
Ned had not sat down yet. He liked moving about the room, looking around. The house was so beautiful, the rooms so tactile with their moss-brown velvets and rain-washed silks, and
Ned said, “You don’t seem to think there’s anything hard about writing.”
“Oh, I sure do,” Jamie said, picking at the label of her beer bottle. “Page numbering, that’s the hardest thing to do: number the fucking pages. This one I’m doing now. I wound up with two 198s. I’m just lucky the first 198 is the end of a chapter and there are only two lines on it. That means all I have to do is excise the two lines.”
Saul had laughed. “For God’s sakes, Jamie. If you put in the two lines in the first place, I’d think you’d consider them a little necessary.”
“Oh, pul- eze. Don’t pull that pompous every-word’s-set-in-stone writing crap with me. The only two lines I think are necessary are the first two lines of ‘Cry.’ ”
And she’d trotted off to Swill’s jukebox to play it again.
TEN
N ed was sitting that morning on the flaking green bench, always the same bench, in the little park, watching people going off to their jobs in other parts of the city, hurrying down subway stairs, rushing to catch buses just pulling away, stopping at newsstands, hailing cabs, lurching in and out of delicatessens and Krispy Kreme with paper cups and sacks and cartons. He liked to watch all of this. There was so much preparation for something other than jobs, something to take up the slack between desk and work, something filling—newsprint, doughnuts. There had to be something to move a person from the fecund mysteries of sleep, through the harried showering and shaving and dressing, to the harsh elliptical light above the desk. Something had to cushion the blow of a job.
Especially on a Monday, and especially one that promised to be oppressive, the sky cold and gray. He was happy to sit in isolation here (sometimes wondering why the park got so little foot traffic) and watch all of this. He felt lucky not be to be part of it. Yet he understood the need for that buffer between waking and settling into work. He had his own cup of coffee, cooling beside him on the bench, and watching all of this early-morning hurry was itself a kind of shield between him and his writing.
Ned picked up the part of the manuscript he’d been carrying, got out a pencil, clicked the lead into place. He enjoyed that click of a lead pencil or pen; it sounded so obedient, granting him control.
Which of course he didn’t have, for the click was all there was.
Instead of Paris and Nathalie’s dilemma, he was thinking of Pittsburgh. Ned was born in Pittsburgh. He remembered so little about it, and this haunted him. How can a person live in a place for seventeen years and not remember it?
After half an hour of this, of thinking about Pittsburgh instead of proofreading his manuscript, he decided to go to Saul’s house.
Saul came to the door wearing slippers (calfskin), a cardigan (cashmere), and smoking a cigar (Cuban). No matter what time of day, whenever Ned saw him, Saul always looked dressed for something—some expensive, exclusive place no one else knew about. It was as if he had a men’s club in his mind. But Ned knew Saul never strove for effects; this was simply the way he’d been brought up.
“How about some coffee?” said Saul. “Go on into the living room; I’ll bring it in.”
His great-grandfather had been rich; his grandfather had taken that and made the family richer; his father had reshuffled the money and made himself the richest yet. Ned did not know how much money Saul had, but he knew it was plenty. Lawyers, accountants, money managers—they handled things. Ned doubted that Saul even knew what he was worth. In any event, all of that entrepreneurial magic had ended with Saul. He spoke of himself as the end of it. He spoke of this so often that he’d finally used the phrase as his book title.
Ned had not sat down yet. He liked moving about the room, looking around. The house was so beautiful, the rooms so tactile with their moss-brown velvets and rain-washed silks, and
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