�He Who Aspires to be a Hero Must Drink Brandy� - Samuel Johnson

A young man's struggle to become a published writer.

 

 

 

 

“He Who Aspires to be a Hero Must Drink Brandy”

          - Samuel Johnson

 

 

Balancing triumph and caution, I slowly side my finger along the inside edge of a white envelope in my PO Box. The New York Review, printed boldly in the top left corner, the envelope is rugged against my palms and the self-adhesive smells of success. Today my dreams have been delivered and in my mind I’ve already called my mother. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she’d say while whisking away the South Beach cabana boy.

“Can I talk to Dad?” I’d ask.

“No.” She’d reply, “No, your father is not here...”

  

                        Dear Sir Ernesto Mustard,

     

Thank you for your interest in our publication, however, we have decided that we cannot use your submission Fortune Favors the Brave at this time…

 

I don’t finish the letter.  I have read these same words before and will have to add another magazine to the List of Literary Ignorance I keep taped to my refrigerator door. In my mind, I’m already pouring a glass of brandy. 

 

 

*

 

I meet with my therapist every Wednesday and Friday.  She carries a Prada handbag and tells me that I am too concerned with how other people view me.  With my health insurance plan, this is costing one hundred and twenty eight dollar per session but her perky silicone staring back at me is enough justification.  She tells me it’s important to love myself for who I am.

 

*

 

The nearest Laundromat is two blocks down 6th avenue. Wash Tub is the official name, but a blue SUR 13 spray-painted across the front widow is the easiest way to identify the place. Cigarette burns adorn most walls and a single light bulb hangs over the back section of washers. This is where I pour a full cap of Cheer’s Special Dark Formula and Downy softener in to washing machine number fourteen. Most people won’t venture here after the streetlights come on, but that is then the potential ripens; the potential for something worth writing about. The fast whirl of a drier’s spin-cycle would perfectly escalate a fistfight into a stabbing.

            A small bell chimes on the door behind me and in my mind I’ve already seen the man walking in. He’s a overweight man with impatience in his stride—No—He’s a tall man who sprints through the Laundromat door and cowers behind a the second row of washers and between his fingers is a gold crucifix worn smooth. 

            I reach for my notebook and turn around slowly. I am the epitome of nonchalant. But, the person pushing open the double doors is scrawny with average height and a wicker basket.  I put my pen down but won’t commit to a feeling of disappointment, this could still turn out ok, I reassure myself.

            “Hey man.” The man says, nodding his scrawny head in my direction as he moves towards washer twelve.  “Hey you live in Centennial Square, right? Third floor?”

            I don’t answer.

            “I’m up on the third floor too, room 303.” He says attempting to establish a camaraderie. 

            “Nice to meet you.” I tell him, but it’s at this moment I recognize the tattered University of Northern Vacaville sweatshirt and apathetic blond goatee. His name is Matt Wilson, he listens to Led Zeppelin and he parks his maroon sedan below my window.

 “Sorry if you can hear all that wall pounding and loud moans, dude.”  Matt smiles and shakes his head, “I just can’t keep the chicks off.”

I’ve never seen Matt escort any slightly tipsy blonde or anyone else up the stairs to his room, but it’s important to have dreams so I keep my mouth shut and don’t ruin his.

          “Hey man, I’ve been thinking.  If my hairdresser seduces me after I leave her a huge tip, does that count as prostitution?”

            I don’t answer.  

 

*         

 

There is a letter from my therapist in the mail today.  It might be an apathetic appointment reminder or indifferent concern about missed appointments.  Most likely it will be angry, filled with expensive hourly fees.  I don’t open it.  Pouring myself another glass of brandy, I tack the envelope to the wall near my Scenic Highways calendar.  December to December, thirteen examples of man’s innate desire to pour concrete coast to coast. I’ve always wanted the swimsuit edition calendar but I would never be able to endure the suspecting and condescending looks cast over the rims of the grocery clerk’s reading glasses.  However, the Highways calendar does make a great conversation starter:

Guest – Oh hey, cool calendar.  Do you like driving around, five miles per hour under the speed limit, just to admire the beauty of God’s green earth?

Me – No.

 

 *

 

Staring out the open window by my desk, I’m half expecting an idea to float through on a wisp of wind, half expecting to waste the day. I am going to write a novel and become famous.

 

A small bottle of Picante Sauce followed me out of the snack food aisle at the downtown grocery store. Walking behind the squeaky back wheel of my shopping cart, walking at an accelerated pace in oversized yellow shoes this bottle of crushed tomatoes, water and dehydrated onions is singing prepositional phrases and verbs in Spanish I don’t understand.  The label says Mild but the sombrero looks deceivingly saucy. I throw back cliché sentiment hoping the Picante comes home with me, hoping we may become lovers.

 

Not bad, I tell myself, but not enough to carry through for a novel. I tack the wasted paper to my wall and begin to sketch triangular shapes on the next page in my notebook. 

A phone rings in the kitchen.  I ignore it and keep “writing.”  One, two, three more unrelenting rings.  Its persistence is admirable.

“Hello?”  I answer, defeat resonating through my voice.

            “Hey man! What up?”  It’s Matt on the other end, he always interrupts me when I’m busy.

Letting out a deep sigh, I tell him “I’ve been allocating my time to work my novel.  How did you get this number?”

           “Looked you up online dude.”  Matt says, “A novel huh? What are you writing? Something girly like a romance novel or a book of poems? That’s cute.  Dude, you need something with balls like a murder or a mob story with hit men and killing and s**t like that.”

I don’t answer.

“We should hang out.”

I hang up. 

 

*

     

Easter is Halloween in pastels—children dressed in an odd combination of colors hunting around for candy. The parallels are haunting but most people are too simple minded and have not caught on.

“Now, now. Other people may enjoy things that you do not like and that is ok. We can work on that issue today.” Helen smiles and circles something on her yellow legal pad. Helen is my therapist.

I want to tell Helen that yellow legal pads are cliché, but I don’t. Instead, I tell her that she is a waste of my time and escort myself out halfway through the hour. I don’t need therapy, I am a writer.

 

*

 

The wind racing past my window howls.  Does it howl because the sound actually replicates a howl or I have accepted social conditioning?  Right now that doesn’t matter, because it speaks to me, the wind, racing itself around my apartment, “keep drinking” it whispers in a raspy voice not unlike ice cubes in a blender.  “Keep drinking” or “keep thinking” I’m not entirely sure but I top off my glass anyway.

            Pulling headphones over my ears, I am kidnapping myself. Pop Lyrics of self-destruction and wrist slitting plunder my body and bind my hands to a pen. I’m going to collect thoughts like stray cows. I’m going to write them down. I don’t need therapy. I’m going to be famous.

 

                        Cold hands grip the bat…

- No. Too bland.

Determined hands grasp the Louisville Slugger he keeps in the closet…

- Better

… The coat closet by the front door.  Thunderclouds obscure the horizon.  Luis clamors to his knees “PLEASE!  I can get the money!”  His cries grow louder not to become more persuasive but attempting to reach another, more sympathetic, audience.

- Yes...

“Did you know that sunflower seeds are Hungary’s main food export?” Don Pedro spits a fourth sunflower seed on Luis’ face. The shells stick in his welling tear ducts. Pop Secret Extra Butter popcorn kernels are exploding in the kitchen microwave; each blast setting the tempo, Don Pedro’s bat harmonizes its rises and falls…

 

- Sunflower seeds?  This is just bad writing I tell myself and toss the crumpled page off my desk. I need something stronger, something more real.

 

An obnoxious knock at my front door pulls the pen from my hand and the bat from Don Pedro.

           

            “Dude.  What up?”  Slouching, hips held up against my doorframe, it’s Matt. “What’s going on, man?  You still writing?  I brought some popcorn. Let’s hang out.”

I can’t help but smile, “Yes.  Good idea. Come on in, I could use some help finishing my novel…”  My determined fingers edge toward the closet by the front door, the coat closet.  I’m going to be a writer.  This bat as my utensil I’m putting Matt into my story.  I’m going to be famous.

Popcorn in the microwave on high, I tell Matt “if you check any bag of sunflower seeds in Europe, it will say ‘Product of Hungary.’”

 

*

 

I tell the girl bagging my groceries that she’s in the presence of greatness.  “I’m a writer,” I tell her. “I hope I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.”

            “WOW,” the blonde tilts her head down to hide blushing cheeks, “No one has ever said anything like that about me before.”  She smiles.

            This giggly sorority hopeful is generally not my type but I’ve got an unopened box of Durex condoms at home that is getting close to its expiration date. I’m sure Oscar Wilde won’t mind this slight perjury. We are all thieves, he of hearts and me of his wooing words.

            “Maybe I could write a story about you …” leaning closer I whisper, “… a romance.”  But murder mystery seems to be more my forte.

Author's Note

Do you think the title fits the story? Can a quote even be a title?

Reviews

[Natasha Leanne]

Definately. I think the title is more powerful and realistic because it is a quote. It goes hand in hand with the story's lighthearted nature, and instills the idea of valour through drinking brandy.