Having a few drinks, on Jonathan Griffin. I’m 100 percent broke. Actually, I shouldprobably stop saying “I’m broke” all the time. There comes a point (say, five years out of college) when you have to start calling a spade a spade and say: I am poor. I am a poor man. I think I hit that point. Yesterday, in a Hamsunesque episode, I went into the Cheese Counter to spend the last of my mother’s money on my usual. Before I can, though, the guy behind the counter points to a new sign above his head: “NO PURCHASES UNDER 150 GRAMS.” I didn’t have enough for 150 grams, so I slunk out after buying a pop and a bag of chips — the only solid to pass my lips for the last 24 hours.
“Thanks very much, Mr. Griffin,” I say now. “So I take it you’re accepting it?”
“Yes, yes, of course. It shall appear in the next number.”
“And didn’t you say, at some point, that you pay upon acceptance?”
“Ah, yes, I catch your drift, my boy. Finish your drink, we’ll go upstairs and see if we can persuade our lovely and talented receptionist to cut you a cheque.”
The “lovely and talented” receptionist turned out to be Milosz, a Czech man in his mid-40s. The Czech wrote me a cheque, my first as a full-fledged, full-time freelance writer. I snapped it between my hands. There’s nothing like seeing your name in print, is there? Especially when it’s preceded by the words “Pay to the order of.”
A hundred dollars. Not much, but it was a start. S.S. David Henry the Freelance Writer — really just a bathtub with a sheet stretched between two broomsticks — was launched. Avast and ahoy, me mateys. Fasten your seatbelts; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
8
Levin
I started hanging around the Monocle. Wouldn’t you? Jonathan Griffin introduced me to all and sundry as a “brilliant young writer,” his “discovery,” all that. I was sort of a house mascot, a museum display: the starving writer. People bought me drinks, or if not I sat around ostentatiously drinking water until someone did. Sometimes someone offered to buy me dinner, but I drew the line at food. That seemed too much like charity.
Meanwhile, living under the same roof with the legendary Leslie Lawson was slowly driving me out of my fucking mind. We’re “friends,” now, she feels comfortable around me, therefore she hangs around the apartment in nothing but her nightgown or baggy T-shirt and panty combo, and the woman seems to do nothing but bend over to pick things up or stand on her tiptoes to reach things off the top shelves.
I always seem to have an erection around her. Even her voice on the phone, even her handwriting gives me an erection.
It reminds me of high school, another time in my life when I always seemed to have an erection. The girls back then made out with all my friends, but never with me. Me they treated like a big, cuddly teddy bear, wiggling around in my lap, rubbing themselves all over me like a cat, generally sending me into a white-hot frenzy of lust it’ll probably take me a lifetime to work off.
Every night, as I drift off, I’m haunted by the same scenario: Les appears in the doorway, her body a dark shape in her nightgown, against the hall light. “Dave, I can’t keep up this charade any more,” she whispers into the darkness of my room. “I’m going crazy, I…can I join you?”
In the mornings, after Les goes to work — it’s part of my morning routine — I slip into her room, lie face-down on her bed, and inhale the fragrance on her pillow. I’ve got it bad.
And if I’d always been sober around Les, I would have been able to keep my little crush on her a secret. But I’m not always sober, as you know. I don’t know what it is with me and booze: the booze molecules instantly bond with the confession-centres of my brain, creating an almost unstoppable blurt-urge. I don’t puke when I drink, but I do tend to spill my guts.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful to booze, I’m very
“Thanks very much, Mr. Griffin,” I say now. “So I take it you’re accepting it?”
“Yes, yes, of course. It shall appear in the next number.”
“And didn’t you say, at some point, that you pay upon acceptance?”
“Ah, yes, I catch your drift, my boy. Finish your drink, we’ll go upstairs and see if we can persuade our lovely and talented receptionist to cut you a cheque.”
The “lovely and talented” receptionist turned out to be Milosz, a Czech man in his mid-40s. The Czech wrote me a cheque, my first as a full-fledged, full-time freelance writer. I snapped it between my hands. There’s nothing like seeing your name in print, is there? Especially when it’s preceded by the words “Pay to the order of.”
A hundred dollars. Not much, but it was a start. S.S. David Henry the Freelance Writer — really just a bathtub with a sheet stretched between two broomsticks — was launched. Avast and ahoy, me mateys. Fasten your seatbelts; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
8
Levin
I started hanging around the Monocle. Wouldn’t you? Jonathan Griffin introduced me to all and sundry as a “brilliant young writer,” his “discovery,” all that. I was sort of a house mascot, a museum display: the starving writer. People bought me drinks, or if not I sat around ostentatiously drinking water until someone did. Sometimes someone offered to buy me dinner, but I drew the line at food. That seemed too much like charity.
Meanwhile, living under the same roof with the legendary Leslie Lawson was slowly driving me out of my fucking mind. We’re “friends,” now, she feels comfortable around me, therefore she hangs around the apartment in nothing but her nightgown or baggy T-shirt and panty combo, and the woman seems to do nothing but bend over to pick things up or stand on her tiptoes to reach things off the top shelves.
I always seem to have an erection around her. Even her voice on the phone, even her handwriting gives me an erection.
It reminds me of high school, another time in my life when I always seemed to have an erection. The girls back then made out with all my friends, but never with me. Me they treated like a big, cuddly teddy bear, wiggling around in my lap, rubbing themselves all over me like a cat, generally sending me into a white-hot frenzy of lust it’ll probably take me a lifetime to work off.
Every night, as I drift off, I’m haunted by the same scenario: Les appears in the doorway, her body a dark shape in her nightgown, against the hall light. “Dave, I can’t keep up this charade any more,” she whispers into the darkness of my room. “I’m going crazy, I…can I join you?”
In the mornings, after Les goes to work — it’s part of my morning routine — I slip into her room, lie face-down on her bed, and inhale the fragrance on her pillow. I’ve got it bad.
And if I’d always been sober around Les, I would have been able to keep my little crush on her a secret. But I’m not always sober, as you know. I don’t know what it is with me and booze: the booze molecules instantly bond with the confession-centres of my brain, creating an almost unstoppable blurt-urge. I don’t puke when I drink, but I do tend to spill my guts.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful to booze, I’m very
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