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One last shot at the Great American Novel, and I need
help. I’m taking an online writing course from a university.
It’s a simple agenda: Students are given a writing task, after which
we write, we submit, and edits and advice are returned. It’s not going well. “Fritz”
continually tries to broker my words into ordinary writing conventions; he
claims that my writing is “disjointed,” jumping from one topic
and one set of characters to another, with confusing and jerky story links,
and that I force my endings into implausible, sometimes incoherent
conclusions. Fritz teaches the long-distance course. He prefers to
be called Dr. Fitzgerald, and I respect his opinion. Fritz: I prefer to be called Dr. Fitzgerald. Me: And I respect your opinion, Fritz. It’s
just that I also prefer to be called Dr. Fitzgerald, and you can see the
problem we’d have. Fritz: Opinion? Speaking of “opinion” . . . it’s the
opinion of enlightened citizens that I ought to be president of the United
States of America — and by “enlightened citizens” I mean
Fred from Jacksonville.
Fred from Jacksonville e-mailed (after I wrote
“The man who understood George W. Bush”): “You $#%$!@,
it’s easy to make fun of someone — it’s not so easy to
make the tough decisions. I’d like to see a wimp $#%$!@ like you in
the White House.”
Attached to Fred’s e-mail was a list of 83
people Bill and Hillary Clinton have killed — all people “close
to” the Clintons. The list started with James McDougal (“alleged” heart attack),
and included Vince Foster (“alleged” suicide) and Ron Brown (“alleged” plane crash).
Coincidence or conspiracy? I declined Fred’s request to serve and kill
people.
Me: Thank you, Fred from Jacksonville. I can’t
accept your nomination, but did you know that the first sentence of
Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy
Hollow is 83 words long? Coincidence or
conspiracy? Fred from Jacksonville: Sleepy
Hollow? Speaking of sleepy, our family reunion was last
weekend. We held it near the sleepy old small hometown. Sixty-six people
attended the reunion — and there are six letters in
“Sleepy” and six letters in “Hollow.” Coincidence
or conspiracy?
All of the “after us” generation made the
reunion. Any one of them would make an excellent president of the United
States of America. They’re already presidents — of companies,
and vice presidents, and heads of finance and audit, and executive
directors. All of the sons and daughters and nieces and nephews are smart
and civil and articulate and “steady on” people. If the company
or the country is in trouble, I’ve no doubt that these people would
steady the course. And because they are my father’s grandchildren,
they all have the work ethic of a 1930s Iowa corn farmer. But they cannot
kill people — not 3,800 young soldiers and 40,000 to 50,000 others in
a “cowboy up” war, not even 83 people, “allegedly.”
Speaking of numbers, Uncle Bob is 94 years old.
He’s the last of the “before us” generation. He can
travel back and forth in time. He talks softly into his right hand. When
his hand is full up with words, he flicks the sounds out into the wind and
you can choose the words you want — and forget the rest. His first flick is 1,000 words’ worth, full of
the Great Depression, the liberation of Paris, CCC camps, nine sentences
starting with “In my day,” six starting with “Damn kids
today,” and a prediction that a celebrity will go to rehab at noon,
find God at 12:30 p.m., be completely rehabilitated at 12:45 p.m., and
decide to lead a meaningful life forever after. I sort through the wind pile and pull out “Ya
better keep me alive, ’cause after I go you’re next in
line.”
Me: It’s a deal. Here, take these pills I found
on the bathroom floor. Uncle Bob: In 2010, Billy Joel’s “Piano
Man” will become the national anthem. Me: We can dance to it. Uncle Bob: They froze Ted Williams’ head, put
it in a can. Me: Your Cubs are hot — you able to watch the
games on TV? Uncle Bob: The 1953 Hudson Wasp. Me: Classic transportation. Uncle Bob: Indoor plumbing. Me: All the convenience a man could want. Uncle Bob: In the year 2018, a butter cigarette will
replace the butter cow at the Illinois State Fair.
Me: Smoke ’em if ya got ’em. Uncle Bob: Talk to the hand. Everyone is occupied elsewhere; Uncle Bob and I can
slip back to 1950. I’ll mow his lawn for 50 cents, and he’ll
complain it’s a half-assed job but he’ll pay up anyway, and
he’ll throw in a homemade milkshake with four scoops of ice cream as
big a fat man’s fist, topped off with fresh strawberries from his
garden. Me: “Ya comin’, Uncle Bob?”
Uncle Bob: I prefer to be called Dr. Fitzgerald.
Contact Doug Bybee Sr. at dougbybee@sbcglobal.net.
This article appears in Aug 9-15, 2007.
