Sand Lines
It is Hard to be Famous
By Danya Boksenboim
I am a terribly famous novelist. I suffer greatly from having to maintain myself, my life style, my standard of quality when it comes to writing, and my good name. It,s a cruel world out there and no matter who you are or what you do, you are only as good as your last entry.
There I was lying on my lawn chair beside my private swimming pool on my bottle green estate surrounded by ten foot stone walls covered in Ivy. I was alone. I was expecting no one. I was alive in my solitude. I must have dozed off.
You can imagine my horror when I awoke to the sound of some one in my pool. Violated! Terrified! I tip toed to the edge and said "Who is it? Who is there?"
There was an insane laughter and then bubbles and then a head , and then another and then another. Three of them . They swam to the edge where the ladder was and climbed out. They were two males and a female. Three feet tall, chubby, fleshy and wearing the most ghastly bathing suits I had ever seen. The female had thick blonde ringlets that framed her moon face and double chins. The males were bald, with equally moon faces and double chins. I couldn?t get over their bathing suits and I tried not to look, although I was unable to control where I was looking as the whole thing was such a horror. I did the only thing any decent person would do.
"Would you like some thing to drink?" Good move, just to do something normal, I thought. Without waiting for their reaction I ambled into my kitchen that has miles and miles of counter space and every conceivable gadget imaginable for gourmet cooking. I went to the fridge and took out a tall pitcher of fresh lemonade, I got the ice tray and then went into the second cup board to the left to find four tall glasses. I was just about to put the ice in the glasses when the phone rang. My heart skipped its usual beat of fear and trepidation when I heard the voice, of my agent, who wanted to know if I came up with that manuscript that all our lives were depending on. I hadn't. I doubted that I ever would again. But that was quite another thought and I had too much to deal with at that particular moment. I feigned illness and arranged a date for the next week. I also lied and told him I had it all done but in its rough form. I had nothing to show. Absolutely nothing.
I came back to my swimming pool with a tray containing four tall glasses of lemonade . One spiked to the hilt with vodka. That one was for me. I put the tray on the little marble top table and gathered four chairs around it. The temperature at this point was clearly 35degrees with the hottest sun imaginable, showing no mercy. Luckily we my guests and I, were seated in the shade of my huge trees that at least protected us from the sun, although there was no breeze. I thought , I found it. My opening line.
"Did you know that it is 35 degrees today? This must be the hottest day of the year Oh yes, The Middle Eastern Sun is so relentless that if you broke eggs on your head they would fry." With that I downed my lemonade spike mix and felt a buzz. I refilled my drink. The next one would go down slowly as it was of no real interest.
My guests broke into a frightening kind of laughter that reached the highest pitch. Had I been a stand up comedian and gotten a reaction like that I would be pleased with my self. But I wasn' and I hadn't said anything that funny.
"So, how did you get in here?" Again the laughter. "What brings you here?" More laughter. "What can I do for you?" This line really did it. They were doubled over, out of control. , One of the chubby males actually fell out of his chair and pulled him self back up. I sat in silence, waiting.. The four of us were silent now Not to be intimidated. I waited.
"My name is Wanda, and this here is Allen, and he over there is Jim." Finally she had spoken her voice like high pitched baby talk. They all treated me to another round of laughter. I was delighted because I felt that I had finally communicated with the aliens. What I wanted to say was something like take me to your leader or where is your space ship? But I knew that some how that would be insensitive. Maybe they were just short people who happened to climb over a ten foot ivy covered stone wall and jump into a swimming pool on their way to some where. "Do you live in this area?" Again shrieks of laughter. Then silence. "You know you shouldn't drink so much it's bad for your liver not to mention your concentration." Said Jim. This really shook me to the core. How did he know that I drink and what was it his business anyway? And then the most frightening thought of all, had I said anything out loud that should have been a thought? By now I was craving another drink. I thought I would just escape to the kitchen and fill another pitcher of lemonade for them and for me, I would just bring out the whole bottle of vodka, set it on the table and be done with it, since they knew about me. There was the possibility that I could return from the kitchen to find them gone. I did not want that to happen. I remained.
"Don't worry." Said Wanda in her cooy cooy voice. " We won't leave you if you go to the kitchen for vodka., especially if you bring us more lemonade. We like the lemonade." Jim was angry.
"How can you encourage her to drink? You should be ashamed Wanda. You're so indulgent. She's probably an alcoholic. Don't be a libertine. She's losing her career because of drink, I could tell you that much."
"Oh you're so wrong Jim. She's drinking because she's losing her career. You see Jimmy? You got it backward." I understood that Wanda was on my side but really. "I'm not an alcoholic I'm a social drinker!" I cried. To no one because discussion was between them, and didn't concern me. Some how.
"Don't you call me Jimmy. It's Jim to you." Jim's voice reminded me so much of those classic Peter Lorrie movies. Yes, Jim sounded exactly like Peter Lorrie.
" Oh so now who?s on the ego trip?" cooed Wanda.
"You better cut it out Wanda. You better cut it out. Jim's getting really mad. Look his face is turning red Wanda." This said Allen who had fallen off the chair before. . His voice was something like Bugs Bunny. "Anyway," He continued. "You both got it wrong, you know. You both got it wrong. She doesn't drink because she's losing her career, and she's not losing her career because she drinks. She drinks. And she's losing her career." Wanda laughed.
"OH SO YOUR TAKE ON THE WHOLE THING IS THAT THESE ARE JUST TWO NON SEQUITORS WITH NO CONNECTION AT ALL TO ONE ANOTHER." Thundered Jim. My gosh, Allen was right. Jim was really mad. I thought that this would be an excellent time to take my leave and head for the kitchen to refill our needs. I had perfect trust now that they would stay.
"You wanna get us some cookies and cake to go with our lemonade?" called Wanda.
""No I want steak and baked potato and a salad." Said Allen"
"I want quiche. Don?t look at me like that . Real men DO eat quiche. Could you put spinach in it?"
"Yes with spinach in it you could be just like Popeye."
"OH shut up Wanda!" Said both Allen and Jim. I decided to just serve every thing on the menu including vodka. I went to my kitchen and found three steaks and three spinach quiches [non dairy] and designer cookies , a chocolate cake, and a banana almond cake. I threw the quiches in the micro wave and broiled the steaks. Then I found them. Two already baked potatoes wrapped in foil. All I had to do was pop them in the oven. It was uncanny. Ditto for the ready made salad.
I returned with a huge tray of every thing and placed it on the table. I noticed that there were no ooos or ahhhs. No thank yous and I settled into the comforting haze of vodka and lemonade, watching my guests making merry . Carbo loading is essential to good writing. I haven?t had much of an appetite lately. It makes me sick to think of home work not done.
By now the vodka was taking effect. I'm a maudlin drunk. "Oh save me!" I cried. "My agent wants a manuscript by next week and I HAVEN?T WRITTEN ANYTHING!" This was met with laughter. How cruel.
"Why don't you write some thing different for a change ? Why does it have to be fiction? Why not non fiction? Remember that journal you've been keeping? That journal about the BBC. Title it. TEN YEARS OF LISTENING TO THE BBC.-ON ISRAEL. You've got it all written up already. It IS in rough form. Just dredge it out and pretty it up and give it to your agent." It was a little scary because all three of them said this in unison. But I wasn't THAT scared.
"This way you would truly be writing what is in your heart." Cooed Wanda.
I didn't say anything . I didn?t even say thank you. I just had this sudden urge to get to my computer. I rose to my feet.
'You better do the dishes. You gotta do the dishes now. Clear the table before you do anything." Said Allen. They all laughed and jumped into the pool. They were gone. So was all the food and all the lemonade and most of the vodka. I cleared the table and left the dirty dishes strewn along my miles of counter space in an artistic arrangement. I marched to my computer with a brave heart.
There is a narrow passage way to the collective unconscious. If you follow it down you will find little elves at a work table. You summon them and if you ask them nicely they will produce an idea to take with you. An idea to nurture, to hone, and to shape until it snowballs into a high flying dream. Writers refer to this as being, "On a roll".