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In the middle of writing that revolting sow of a short story I thought I could pull off, you know, the one about successful people and how their biggest problems were their neuroses, well that wasn’t necessarily true, I took specific steps to avoid displaying them, especially in the main character, a male—he couldn’t be too much like me and of course physically they never are—I make them shorter or blond and they get to play sports much more than I ever can, so the main character minus the neurotic and well it’s a big fucking mess, hours upon hours of waste, and in the middle of this, a knock at the front door. It’s a woman I knew years back traveling the continent. We met in an obscure French town—Sainte Grande-la-Foy or Saint Pol-de-Leon maybe. A small girl is at her side. I’m struck that they hold hands. What a gesture, what commitment. Well, no shit writer, it’s her daughter, but no, not yours as well, that tawdry scene has been played too often, but yes little Melanie, tapered hair and glassy aqua eyes, does have to do with me.
I invite them into the smelly living room, take the story in hand, wishing I had a fire going, but it’s August. I could throw it in and see if they would try and save it. They who know me only a little less than my mother. I bring glasses of water and offer Melanie a stick of gum. She is so overjoyed she takes to examining it for the duration of the visit like I handed her a raw piece of kale.
The woman, she is Belgian (we both stayed at one of those auberge de jeunesses), tells a story I vaguely remember. Traipsing around, we found a farmer’s field one lazy day and sat on the edge of it and talked about our lives, our dreams. Me with the writing and her with, she really didn’t know what. Eventually it came out she wanted a child and until that happened she wouldn’t really plan a career, but men do not grow on trees she reminded me, and we looked up at a mighty Cypress nearby. Nope, no men up there, I said. Slowly the scene bled back into my consciousness. I was brazen enough to take this as an invitation and we did kiss, the smell of earth and vegetation about, our clothes getting soiled, and then abruptly she stopped and covered my mouth. Just hold me, she said. So we lied there. And at some point, in the magic seconds as during an eclipse or convergence I said if you want to have a child then have a child. A year later she did. The man, uninteresting, he worked in government. Now they might see one another with each change of season, nothing more. Melanie insists she doesn’t care. She loves her mother.
So this woman came to thank me for something twenty other people told her, but I said it at the right moment and it stuck. And she is happy. Melanie and her love America, especially the Giant Sequoias, where they had just come from, camping there for five days.
We laugh some more. I find a bottle of wine I had forgotten about, some table red. We sit on the porch and I point out the yellowjacket nest under the eave, how it has swelled in the past two weeks. Melanie counts their arrivals and departures. She wonders if they were all different creatures or just the same one going back and forth. Indicating her, I say, such good English. Her mother is in the process of tying her hair up. It is necessary these days, she explains. You never know what could happen. I shake my head, wanting to apologize, but just stare at the yard and street below, grass much too long, another chore to take me away from the pitiful stories I create.
At dusk I suggest we could order out, some Thai place. But she says they should get back to the hotel. Tomorrow they have a long drive up 101. They are to camp in the Redwoods next, then onward to Oregon. Beautiful country up there, I say, almost rolling my eyes at sounding so deer hunter. At the white rental car I shake Melanie’s hand and tell her to take care of her mother. We are fine together, she says. Her mother kisses my forehead and wishes me well in life, in art. They drive away and I turn to the house, the yellowjackets and the piece of shit story.
What is my line? From day one all people ever said to me after they finished reading my work, and only after a significant pregnant pause, was ‘keep writing.’ Oh yes, the great world of advice. Thai it is.
Greg Gerke lives in Brooklyn, after having spent seven years in Eugene, OR. His work has appeared in Hobartpulp, Apt, Rive Gauche, VerbSap, and Ghoti. He is currently completing a novel set in Mount Shasta, California and Heidelberg, Germany. For further information, visit his website: www.greggerke.com.
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