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Authors: Steve Yarbrough
Tags: Contemporary
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Brightest
—even Lady Bird’s
White House Diary
, which to my surprise we had with the used books in the basement. We’d follow her around with two or three hand baskets. She gave us a pretty good workout.
“When she went in to see the manager, she told him that the first time it happened, she assumed it was a mistake. Said I was the nicest, most helpful person she’d come across in ages, which was why she always asked for me. Most people never look at a receipt as long as the total sounds right, but she wasn’t most people. The second time, I didn’t even remember having done it before—close to three years had passed—but she never threw away sales slips and she still had the old one and handed both of them over to my boss.
“When they got through auditing my receipts, it was stunning how much I’d stolen. I had no idea. I could’ve gone to prison, but my boss was a softhearted guy, and he let my mom pay him back and didn’t press charges.”
He quit talking, which she took as indication that the time had come to move beyond narrative into analysis and perhaps even criticism. “Why did you do it?” she asked.
“For the most predictable of reasons. I was snorting a ton ofcoke, and that’s not cheap. Plus, a lot of writers come through that store, including some huge names, and quite a few of them were willing to hang out late and get blasted. I tried too hard to impress them. I wanted to be what they were.”
“To be a writer?”
“Sure. Didn’t you?”
“No. Never.”
He shook his head as if he didn’t believe her. “I thought almost everybody doing a Ph.D. in literature wanted to be one, that you all had two or three novels or a stack of poems secreted away in your desks.”
“I don’t have anything like that in my desk.”
“Amazing,” he said. “No secrets.”
“I didn’t say I don’t have
secrets
,” she said, then immediately regretted it, since this was an invitation for him to ask what they were.
It surprised her when he didn’t, and even more so that she felt offended by his failure to ask, as if he considered it a given that her secrets, whatever they might be, were less worthy of discussion than his own.
When Matt stopped in front of her house, he saw her husband sitting in a lawn chair on the patio, having a drink while the black Lab snoozed at his feet. A charcoal grill stood nearby, smoke rising from the grate.
“Here,” she said, “let me introduce you to Cal.”
He protested that they could do it some other time, since she’d had a long day and her husband was enjoying himself.
“Don’t be silly. Come on, we’re neighbors.”
So he climbed out of the car, and they started across the yard. At first the other man just stared at them, his long jaw slackening into an expression of puzzlement. As they came closer, he set the drink on the ground—straight whiskey, itlooked like—and unfolded himself from his chair, all his angles straightening simultaneously. He was even taller than Matt had thought. At least six four, if not more. “Hi, there,” he said.
“Cal, this is our new neighbor. Matt Drinnan. He happened to be in Andover, and when he saw me marching glumly toward the train station, he was kind enough to offer me a ride.” She pointed across the street. “He lives up there, in the blue Queen Anne.”
As Matt’s hand was enveloped by one twice as large as his own, Cal sighed. “Oh, thank God.”
“For what?” she said.
Before offering Matt a drink and demanding that he stay for dinner, Cal said, “When I saw you get out of someone else’s car, my first thought was that you’d had a wreck. Then I realized you didn’t drive to work.”
Though each of them, in the months ahead, would recall the exact remark differently, all three noted that his initial reaction, upon seeing them together, was to assume disaster had struck.
in the morning, the old general spent a considerable amount of time in the wine cellars with his winegrower
—even Lady Bird’s
White House Diary
, which to my surprise we had with the used books in the basement. We’d follow her around with two or three hand baskets. She gave us a pretty good workout.
“When she went in to see the manager, she told him that the first time it happened, she assumed it was a mistake. Said I was the nicest, most helpful person she’d come across in ages, which was why she always asked for me. Most people never look at a receipt as long as the total sounds right, but she wasn’t most people. The second time, I didn’t even remember having done it before—close to three years had passed—but she never threw away sales slips and she still had the old one and handed both of them over to my boss.
“When they got through auditing my receipts, it was stunning how much I’d stolen. I had no idea. I could’ve gone to prison, but my boss was a softhearted guy, and he let my mom pay him back and didn’t press charges.”
He quit talking, which she took as indication that the time had come to move beyond narrative into analysis and perhaps even criticism. “Why did you do it?” she asked.
“For the most predictable of reasons. I was snorting a ton ofcoke, and that’s not cheap. Plus, a lot of writers come through that store, including some huge names, and quite a few of them were willing to hang out late and get blasted. I tried too hard to impress them. I wanted to be what they were.”
“To be a writer?”
“Sure. Didn’t you?”
“No. Never.”
He shook his head as if he didn’t believe her. “I thought almost everybody doing a Ph.D. in literature wanted to be one, that you all had two or three novels or a stack of poems secreted away in your desks.”
“I don’t have anything like that in my desk.”
“Amazing,” he said. “No secrets.”
“I didn’t say I don’t have
secrets
,” she said, then immediately regretted it, since this was an invitation for him to ask what they were.
It surprised her when he didn’t, and even more so that she felt offended by his failure to ask, as if he considered it a given that her secrets, whatever they might be, were less worthy of discussion than his own.
When Matt stopped in front of her house, he saw her husband sitting in a lawn chair on the patio, having a drink while the black Lab snoozed at his feet. A charcoal grill stood nearby, smoke rising from the grate.
“Here,” she said, “let me introduce you to Cal.”
He protested that they could do it some other time, since she’d had a long day and her husband was enjoying himself.
“Don’t be silly. Come on, we’re neighbors.”
So he climbed out of the car, and they started across the yard. At first the other man just stared at them, his long jaw slackening into an expression of puzzlement. As they came closer, he set the drink on the ground—straight whiskey, itlooked like—and unfolded himself from his chair, all his angles straightening simultaneously. He was even taller than Matt had thought. At least six four, if not more. “Hi, there,” he said.
“Cal, this is our new neighbor. Matt Drinnan. He happened to be in Andover, and when he saw me marching glumly toward the train station, he was kind enough to offer me a ride.” She pointed across the street. “He lives up there, in the blue Queen Anne.”
As Matt’s hand was enveloped by one twice as large as his own, Cal sighed. “Oh, thank God.”
“For what?” she said.
Before offering Matt a drink and demanding that he stay for dinner, Cal said, “When I saw you get out of someone else’s car, my first thought was that you’d had a wreck. Then I realized you didn’t drive to work.”
Though each of them, in the months ahead, would recall the exact remark differently, all three noted that his initial reaction, upon seeing them together, was to assume disaster had struck.
in the morning, the old general spent a considerable amount of time in the wine cellars with his winegrower
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