One Mississippi
“Tell me about your book,” she said. Her watch is on the table, and the watch makes you nervous in case she glances at it, but she doesn’t, she is very serene, and why the hell not, she has a job, an office probably a decent car although she may not drive, she may grab taxis like Sarah Jessica Parker. Now that was an unfortunate association because now you’re thinking about Sex and the City instead of your story, the book that you wrote, the one she is asking about, waiting serenely for a response to a question you should be able to field. After all, you wrote the book, you are the author with all the magesterial implications of that, yet you’re thinking about a TV show, now in syndication, a show that you would not count among your personal can’t miss programs except for hailing cabs which is your favorite scene in most episodes, all of which are springing from the memory banks in a rush of detail so vivid you can read the medallion numbers on each and every member of the fleet that has pulled to the curb since the show began. This is like the time you were called on by Sister Mary Rocky Graziano and asked to recite the Beattitudes when the lyrics to Street Fighting Man filled the screen, the silver screen, the one behind your eyes, and Sister had to beat you half to death before banishment, exile, scorn, and ridicule could follow you into the hall.
“Two Minutes.” The volunteer is frowning, the clock is ticking, your pitch session may end on a tragic note if you don’t say something. The editor is nervous, she is fading, getting restless, smiling too much, saying something indistinct…you read her lips…what is your book about? Try to breathe deep draw air into the lungs…your book is about…
“Geese,” you say.
“Geese?”
“I meant sex…in a city…where there are geese, but only some of the time. Hey, wait, come back, I remember now.”