Further Interpretations of Real-Life Events Read Online Free Page A

proceed.” I told him all about my father. Knowing Hodgett’s predilections, I exaggerated some things, made my father sound more abusive. Hodgett’s eyes were shut, but I could tell he was listening by the way his face tic’ed and scowled. “He sends the stories out under my name,” I said. “I haven’t written a word in over a month.”
    To my surprise, Hodgett opened his eyes, looked at me as if he’d just awoken, and said, “My old man once tried to staple-gun a dead songbird to my scrotum.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Just facts, not looking for pity.”
    I remembered reading this exact sentence— staple-gun, songbird, scrotum —then I realized where. “That happened to Moser,” I said, “at the end of your novel The Hard Road . His dad wants to teach him a lesson about deprivation.”
    â€œThat wasn’t a novel, chief. That was first-person life .” He huffed hoarsely. “All this business about literary journals and phone calls and hurt feelings, it’s just not compelling. A story needs to sing like a wound. I mean, put your father and son in the same room together. Leave some weapons lying around.”
    â€œIt isn’t a story,” I said. “I’m living it.”
    â€œI’m paid to teach students like you how to spoil paper. Look at me, man—I can barely put my head together.” His face went through a series of contortions, like a ghoul in a mirror. “You want my advice,” he said. “Go talk to the old man. Life ain’t an opera. It’s more like a series of commercials for things we have no intention of buying.”
    He narrowed his eyes, studying me. His eyes drooped; his mouth had white film at the corners. His nose was netted with burst capillaries.
    â€œWhat happened to the young woman, anyway?” Hodgett asked. “The one with the nasty allure.”
    â€œYou mean Carrie? My girlfriend?”
    â€œCarrie, yeah. I used to have girlfriends like Carrie. They’re fun.”
    He closed his eyes and with his right hand began casually kneading his crotch. “She did that story about the burn ward.”
    â€œCarrie doesn’t write anymore,” I said, trying to break the spell.
    â€œShame,” Hodgett said. “Well, I guess that’s how it goes. Talent realizes its limitations and gives up, while incompetence keeps plugging away until it has a book. I’d take incompetence over talent in a street fight any day of the week.”
    I picked up the Chivas Regal bottle and stood to leave. I studied the old man’s big noisy battered redneck face. He was still fondling himself. I wanted to say something ruthless to him. I wanted my words to clatter around in his head all day, like his words did in mine. “Thanks,” I said.
    He nodded, pointed to the bottle. “You can leave that anywhere,” he said.
    A nother memory: my mother, father, and me in our living room. I am eight years old. In the corner is the Christmas tree, on the wall are three stockings, on the kitchen table is a Styrofoam-ball snowman. We’re about to open presents. My father likes to systematically inspect his to figure out what’s inside. He picks up a flat parcel wrapped in silver paper, shakes it, turns it over, holds it to his ear, and says, “A book.” He sets it on his lap and closes his eyes. “A . . . autobiography.”
    He’s right every time.
    My mother wears a yellow bathrobe and sits under a blanket.
    She’s cold again. She’s sick but I don’t know this yet. She opens her presents distractedly, saying wow and how nice and neatly folding the wrapping paper in half, then in quarters, while I tear into my gifts one after another. I say thanks without looking up.
    That year, she and I picked out a new diver’s watch for my father, which we wait until all the presents have been opened to give him.