Read Online I Was There the Night He Died by Ray Robertson - Free Book Online Page B

Jagermeister-induced diarrhea is your idea of an effective weight-control technique, it’s tough to be a flawlessly conscientious son, let alone happy.
    Bottom line, though, I was, am, and will continue to be a selfish sonofabitch. And I’m okay with that. In fact, for the particular line of work I’m in, being a selfish sonofabitch is a professional prerequisite. Underpinning a poet’s love of language and a playwright’s ear for dialogue and a philosopher’s itch for absolutes is the novelist’s screaming only-child egoism that will not allow anything or anyone to stop him from doing what he wants to do: namely, playing God with the people and places he creates. And fortunate is the creator of extended works of imaginative prose whose life companion feels the very same way, whose definition of spending quality time together as a couple is, first and foremost, doing a good day’s worth of what she herself cares about most, and then—and only then—killing a bottle of red wine while watching a DVD that can even be bad because two satisfied and spent people slouching on the couch at the end of the day is the only possible way of making a good day even better.
    But fifteen thousand dollars by the end of the month or else.
    Playing God is the easy part; it’s getting along with all the other mortals that’s difficult. Especially when there’s no one around to drink wine and watch bad DVDs with at the end of the day.
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    Clichés are sins, and tonight , anyway, I’m an everlasting malefactor. Four straight hours head down at the dining room table and all I’ve got to show for it is words, 1,021 words. No pictures, though. No smells, either. And, most damning of all, no sounds. And how can you possibly make Ronnie Lane live on the page if you can’t compel the reader to hear the music he made? I turn over the CD case with his picture on it—a half-in-the bag, naughty little woodchuck in filthy white overalls with a sparkling secret in his dancing brown eyes he somehow managed to smuggle into every one of his songs—and decide to give it another shot tomorrow night. Because if I can’t look him in the eye, I sure as hell can’t conjure up his soul. Maybe Monday, after I talk to the people at the bank and get Dad’s financial situation sorted out, I’ll have a clearer head. Right now, I need the opposite of that; right now, I need to get stoned. I tuck a bottle of red wine underneath my arm for intoxication insurance.
    I’ve got one foot on my front step just as the girl from across the street is stepping onto hers. There’s nothing she can do now except charge or retreat. She holds onto the screen door so that it doesn’t slam shut and then heads right for her swing. I take my spot on the bench.
    I light up and lean over, partly to help shield the joint from the stinging wind, partly to help stay warm. Of course, I don’t have to be a martyr to the February cold—I am, after all, blessed with a heating blanket and a lengthy extension cord and four well-insulated walls to bump into—but I stay hunkered over where I am. The girl is behind me, but I can only presume she’s doing the same.
    The girl is a good teacher, I’ll give her that; two tokes in and tonight’s forecast looks promising: plenty of brain fog with isolated patches of pleasant confusion mixed with persistent forgetfulness. I’ve changed my mind; weed’s a good drug after all. Good for doing nothing and wanting nothing and being nothing, but as I’ve got nothing in particular to do or want or be right now, I say it’s good, I say it’s all right.
    â€œWhat? What’s all right?”
    Apparently, involuntary speech is one of marijuana’s less appealing attributes.
    â€œNo, I—It’s a nice night, I said.”
    â€œNo it’s not. It sucks.”
    Kids these days. I will not let this girl