Exile on Kalamazoo Street (17 page)

I hoped I wasn't that delusional. I was pretty sure I wasn't.

“Do you know my books, Paula?”

“I read
Golden Slumber
a few years ago. It was funny. It was supposed to be, right?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “Thanks.”

“I liked the main character,” she said.

“Gavin.”

“Yes, Gavin. He was often unpredictable. In a good way.”

“How did you come across it?” I said.

“Someone had mentioned it was by a local author.”

I nodded, felt good. “That was my first novel.”

“How many are there?”

“Three,” I said. “Two good ones and a stinker.”

“Wasn't there a film made of one of them?”

“The first one—
Golden
. It was a minor film. No real big name actors in it.”

“But satisfying nonetheless, I would imagine,” she said.

“Oh, sure. I actually got paid a chunk of money, so yeah. It paid for this house.”

I looked around the living room, quickly assessing what I had. It was a small but cozy house. More than enough house for a man and a cat.

“Did you like the film, Bryce?”

“It was okay … sure. Not bad at all. Faithful to the book, for the most part. No real complaints. I even got paid as an adviser.”

She looked down and wrote on her notepad. I watched her hands. They were small, delicate. I liked them and her long hair, too.

“Is money the measure of your writing, Bryce?”

I decided to think a moment, to seem thoughtful, but I knew how I felt about that.

“No,” I said. “I wouldn't say that. The first two sold well and made money, but that was unexpected, sort of. I mean, I didn't write them thinking I would make money. Certainly I didn't
expect
it.” I forced a smile. “It's a combination of skill and luck, and maybe luck is more important than skill these days.”

“How so?” she said.

“Look at the stuff they crank out now … all this Opus Dei conspiracy stuff. All formulaic intrigue and no character development.”

She wrote some more notes.

“I've learned not to try and remember everything,” she said. “Earlier you said one of your books was a stinker. Why?”

“It didn't sell. That's the definition of stinker.”

“You said money wasn't the measure, though.”

“True, but I mean, it didn't sell
at all
. The publisher had to eat that one a bit.”

“How so?” she said.

“It isn't any good. It's crap.”

“But it was published.”

“That's no longer an indicator of quality, trust me,” I said. “I once had a name, a rep—even a following. Fans, for God's sake. When there's a following, a name, all sorts of crap gets published. Now it's all about furthering a brand instead of literature. Don't get me wrong. I'm not claiming my books are great literature like Joyce and Hemingway and Fitzgerald. But they aren't fluff, either, until that last one, anyway.”

“What happened?” she said. “With the last one. What's it called?”

“
Reflections
.”

“Why is it a stinker?”

“Because I was drunk, mostly, when I wrote it. Never write while drinking—literary rule number one. Even Hemingway waited until after working each morning to jump into the Whiskey River.”

“But you haven't been drinking since then … since Christmas?” she said.

“Not a drop,” I said. “And there's none in the house. That's the whole point of exile. I even had my car taken to Janis's house.”

“Impressive willpower, Bryce. Will it continue?”

I shrugged and then smiled.

“It's been a good run so far,” I said.

“Any doubts?”

“Sure. It's a crapshoot. You know that. You work with people who go through this stuff, right?”

“Drinking, yes,” she said. “Exile, no.”

“Maybe I'll become a journal article for you.”

“Do you think it could rise to that level of issue, Bryce?”

“Let's hope not. Who knows? People can only try to keep doing what they're doing if it works.”

“And for you, what works is exile … in your house.”

“For now,” I said. “We both know that will have to change.”

She jotted down more notes. When I was writing a novel I certainly wouldn't have allowed anyone to look over my shoulder, but I certainly would have liked to see what she was writing at that moment.

“Sorry,” she said, glancing up once, quickly, as she finished writing.

“Does it sound weird,” I said, “exile?”

“No,” she said. “It's a choice you made to help yourself.”

“A choice to save myself, I guess.”

“Do
you
feel weird about it, Bryce?”

“I'm not sure how I feel, now. It seemed to make more sense in the beginning.”

“And now?”

I leaned back in my chair and glanced up at the ceiling.

“Now,” I said, emitting a long sigh, “it just seems long. It seems … long. Long is what keeps coming to me, Paula. It's been a long time, a long process. If I write a new novel, maybe I should call it,
Long
.”

“Do you plan to write a new book?”

“I was just paid to write a screenplay.”

“How nice,” she said. “About what?”

“An adaptation of my last novel.”

“The stinker?”

“Surprising, right? And ironic.”

“Were you … surprised?”

“Flabbergasted. Flummoxed. Dumbfounded. Dazed. Confused. That about covers it, I guess.”

“And how's it going?” she said.

“I haven't written a single word. And I might not write a single word. But I did give them a title.”

“That's a start, Bryce. What's the title?”

“
Jedi Mind Trick
.”

“Really?” she said. “And why that title?”

“It's what came to me,” I said. “It's what the old wishing well of a subconscious served up. What do you think?”

She closed her notepad.

“I think we have plenty to start with next time.”

But there wasn't a next time. Maybe if I had mentioned Elsa and her crotchless body stockings, and her 23-year-old shaved vulva, there would have been a next time. Maybe a whole series of next times. But I kept Elsa to myself, and when Paula called to see if I wanted to talk again, I thanked her and said that exile isn't a condition but a choice, and a choice for me to wrestle with while still in exile. Hashing it out with a partner defeated the whole purpose of exile … whatever that was.

* * *

I told Elsa about the mysterious envelope the next time she parachuted onto my driveway wearing a new white crotchless body stocking beneath her coat. The notion of her actually parachuting onto my driveway was awesome: I would be looking up as her 23-year-old shaved vulva got closer and closer, more distinct, the lips glistening and ready to engulf me whole upon landing. In the fantasy, the color of body stocking didn't matter as long as it didn't clash with the white of the parachute itself, I supposed, though I did prefer the black body stocking because it contrasted nicely with her pale skin. Any color was quite serviceable and nicely framed the 23-year-old shaved vulva. Working as a teacher's aide apparently paid enough to keep Victoria's Secret in business. An actual parachute and lessons were likely beyond her budget.

But back to the mysterious envelope.

“That's weird, Bryce,” Elsa said.

“What's weird about it?”

“Someone sent you a letter and you don't know who it's from.”

“They didn't actually send it,” I said. “It was just put in my mailbox.”

“Even weirder.”

“I guess so.”

“You guess?” she said. “Maybe someone is seriously stalking you and this is just the opening move.”

“Who would waste time stalking
me
?”

“A fan.”

“A fan? I don't have fans anymore, Elsa.”

“More than you know, probably.”

“Maybe one—in all of Kalamazoo. Besides, I'm a sitting target. Where's the fun in stalking someone who is always in the same place? Where's the challenge in that?”

“I don't think stalkers do it for fun, Bryce.”

“What do they do it for?”

“They have to. It's an obsession.”

“Maybe,” I said, “or maybe the stalker wears crotchless body stockings,” I added, slipping my hand inside her thigh and lightly tracing a finger along the lips of her 23-year-old shaved vulva.

“Stalkers probably don't wear crotchless body stockings,” she said. “They wear black knit caps and dark clothes and smoke a lot of cigarettes in their car outside someone's house.”

“You know many stalkers?”

“I'm just saying that stalkers are probably dark, shadowy figures … something like that.”

“You're thinking of spies,” I said. “Spies wear dark clothes and smoke lots of cigarettes. Stalkers can be cops, or insurance adjusters, or batshit crazy women who head the local PTA.”

“Do spies wear crotchless body stockings?” she said.

“Of course. Female spies are horny as well as crafty.”

“Am I horny enough to be a spy?”

“You're certainly horny enough to be a stalker,” I said. “How's that?”

“I'd rather be a spy,” she said.

“How about a teacher's aide who wears crotchless body stockings?”

“Somehow that falls short,” she said.

“Not if you have perspective,” I said. “Being a spy is a lonely and dangerous life … especially if it's in a Tom Cruise film.”

After a moment she said, “Am I a stalker?”

“Do you think you are?”

Another moment passed.

“I don't know what I am … yet,” she said.

“There's no hurry, Elsa. You're twenty-three.”

“Am I an old twenty-three, or a young twenty-three?”

Now it was my time to pause and think.

“I don't think twenty-three can be either.”

“That's very diplomatic, Bryce.”

“I'm an exile. Remember? You should ask someone out in the real world.”

“Like who?”

“Tom Cruise.”

“He's not available.”

“Then ask Matt,” I said.

“Matt doesn't live in the real world either.”

“Then you're screwed.”

“No,” she said, climbing astride me. “
You're
screwed.”

As she moved up and down on me, I said, “Have you ever considered taking skydiving lessons?”

“I'm diving on you right now,” she said, grinding her hips faster.

* * *

Later, I watched Elsa walk down the driveway to her car, imagining that flawless 23-year-old shaved vulva hidden and warm and protected and also lurking beneath her coat. I looked up briefly, to visualize her descending from a parachute, legs far apart. I always watched her walk to her car and I always watched her pull away from the curb and drive down the street until the taillights disappeared around a corner. I always watched her leave, knowing each time could be the last time.

And I knew, each time, that if it was the last time, I would be okay with it.

We both needed to find our ways back to the right paths.

But in the interim, we also need our diversions, our detours. Detours don't last.

They don't need to.

Spring seemed to just appear one day unannounced, but definitely invited and welcome. The wind fell apart and green grass began to grow and the yard was no longer soggy from melting snow. Chirpy raccoons climbed onto my deck at night scavenging for food. I would slide open the door and pour dry cat food onto the steps and they would eat and peer inside at me. Black Kitty often sat at the door watching them eat and perhaps remembering them as fellow travelers in the night when he had been homeless.

I began to see the outside world—nature—as also living in exile, as living in a perpetual and natural cycle of exile and freedom, exile and freedom. The grass would be exiled into dormancy each winter and then eagerly rise up each spring, free of the wintry shackles of its exile and ready to pursue a new life. New leaves would erupt soon on the branches and the trees would no longer be bony skeletons and would awaken and be full and thick, their leaves casting cooling shadows during the warm days to come.

On this day, I slid the deck door open more than a foot wide, stood in the doorway in just stocking feet, and stuck my head out into the raw outside air, careful not to violate exile's edict of no full foot outside. The air was cool, not cold, and fresh. A soft breeze washed over me and felt cleansing. Squirrels dashed across the yard from tree to tree, and one stopped near the deck and stood on hind legs to look at me a moment before scampering up a tree onto a branch. A vee of geese appeared abruptly overhead, honking loudly as they started their descent onto a nearby pond.

Standing there in the doorway—tasting ever so slightly the vast outside world, but still very much in the powerful gravitational pull of the tiny universe of my house—I thought of the irony of being tasked to write a film about a man with the ability to travel the world searching for some eternal truth. I thought of truth as just a word and a good idea, but something that did not really exist. There were actions and reactions, statements and replies, but there was little that could be called truth.

It was damn nice to stand there in the doorway and smell the cool, fresh air. I looked back once and saw Black Kitty sitting well behind me but showing no inclination to approach. I slipped off a sock and stuck that naked foot out the door and into space, feeling the cool air run across it, tickle it, caress it.

Was I truly afraid to go out? I couldn't believe that was true in the strictest sense. If the house caught fire, I knew I could dive out the door to the deck or slip out a second floor window with Black Kitty under my arm and slide off the roof into the yard. I doubted those actions would even require thought, or much thought. Self-preservation is surely our strongest instinct.