These 40 Years (Of Wasted Time)
A Short Novel by S. Michael Shrawder
I.
I am 69 years old.
69…69…69…in 3 months 2 days and approximately 7 hours and 13 minutes I’ll be 70. “The Big Seven-Oh,” everyone’s been calling it. Never thought I’d live to see the day, personally. Too many bad habits, oh, with the smoking and the drinking. Hell, as I write this right now—as I caress and pound, and clank and click, and jab and stab the keys of my good ol’ fashioned (and that’s the way I goddam’d like em’) typewriter, I’ve got a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I ‘ve learned to type with my elbows.
I’ve grown old and loony, and along the way I’ve been bitter, I’ve been sweet. I’ve been angst-ridden, I’ve overburdened. I’ve been half dead half the time and never felt more alive. I’ve lost track of days in the cities, I’ve watched as a caterpillar turned into a moth, and goddammit did that piss me off.
“Right there went a two weeks, Rodgar. Two weeks!”
Rodgar Morrison was my chief assistant at Gillian C’s New England Fishery. He was in charge of helping me find meaning in my life. And was insistent upon the notion that watching a caterpillar turn into a moth was just as good as watching one turn into a butterfly.
I was—still am—Gillian C. Well…C. Gillian. Well…C. Gillian. Colin Gillian…Colin Gillian the third.
“Spit it out old man!”
That was one of Rodgar’s favorite quotes when we were younger. “Spit it out old man!” And nine out of ten times it was aimed at me. Ya’ see, I tend to dance and prance around my words. I can pirouette from one sentence to another with no problem. But I jumble and jump, and from time to time, I trip and I fall and I flail around on the floor for a tad shouting blasphemies and spouting off about how that goddamn’d couch was always positioned at least a foot in the other direction. Why would you move the couch without telling me?
“Spit it out old man.”
It made so much more sense when I wasn’t an old man…
But I digress. Gillian C’s fishery was a hobby of mine, well, my only means of monetary survival. I inherited it, ya see, from Colin Gillian Jr. and he inherited from Colin Gillian Sr. The name Gillian C’s New England Fishery was a marketing scheme employed by my father, Colin Gillian Jr. The original company name was The Warf. Quaint? Yes. Simplistic? Oh-god-yes. Marketable to hip young 60’s on-the-go-gotta-have-it-now-c’mon-people-let’s-innovate-here-work-smarter-not-harder-now-fat-cat’s-of-tomorrow investors? Nah, not so much. Come to think of it, 60’s investors sound a lot like the coke’d up economic innovators of 80’s workout routines. Whatever, economics is economics. Money is money, it makes you a douchebag either way.
I mean, why do you think air travel is so expensive? There must be a reason behind it right? Fuel is expensive. The technology is cutting edge. But that’s not it. No, that’s not it at all. Now listen up, because if you take one thing away from this book let it be this: Air travel is expensive for one particular reason and one reason only. It is the fastest commercial method, known to man, of getting as far away from your problems, your pain, your mortgage, your nagging wife, your drunk teenage son brought home by the police, your high blood pressure, your bad knee, your memories of that lady friend from high school that didn’t need you anymore, your wrinkles, and the broken air conditioner that makes an annoying rattling noise every time it runs (but it still does its job either way so why are you complaining Deborah? You’re just like you’re mother sometimes I swear. Well if you want a new one you can go buy it with your money, you have a job don’t you? Oh yeah that’s right, I’m supposed to supply for the family while you “take care of the home.” Well you know what? We can barely live on this pay Deborah, let alone afford a new air conditioner. I’m done. I quit. I give up. You win.)…possible.
And the price of tickets? Varies by your ability to “get away” during the flight. First class is quiet, and has plenty of alcohol. Forget, forget, forget. Economy class? It’s a thirty-case away from a trailer park in the sky. Sometimes I think that’s what heaven is like. A trailer park in the sky. And there’s always at least one crying baby. No crying babies in first-class. No way, no how.
Lina Evans, a long-term executive assistant of mine, and lifetime mother, buried her only son, Ronald, on November 4th, 1999. She practically ran the company in my 32 years of absent-minded adventuring with Rodgar after inheriting it. Actually, come to think of it, scratch out practically. She runs that company. And goddammit, I love her to death for it.
She was a tiny little thing, with long brown hair that was always up in a pony-tail. 5’1” and slender as a pole, with a bright healthy glow, and the authoritativeness of a Girl Scout drill sergeant. He face was round as a cherry, and her cheeks were plump. Her pointy nose came off her face at a 45 degree angle. With the tan skin of a bazillion Bazillions, she could pass for a feisty Hispanic sit-com mother if she wanted. Description aside, she was hot.
On November 5th, 1999, I gave her two things. The first was a blank check written out to American Airlines.
She asked me what she was supposed to do with it.
“Go somewhere,” I said.
“But where?”
“Anywhere away from here.”
The second was a word of advice.
“Fly first class. Come home whenever.”
Lina had no husband, and had little idea where Ronald’s father was for that matter. So for a month Lina was gone. And for a month a small nameless town in New England was without Lina.
And for a month I ran Gillian C’s New England Fishery. And for a month I played with a stapler every day.
I don’t know where she went, but when she came home I asked how she was. She said alright. She said the trip was good. I like to think it helped.
