My first thought on reaching the H Bar Restaurant on Maxwell Avenue is to ask if my old and close friend Lou Waymarsh has made a reservation. We haven’t seen each other for months and the first arrangement to meet this morning at his house had changed. I asked the receptionist and finding that reservations are unnecessary, I look around and see he hasn’t arrived yet and take a seat at the bar. There is now time to reread the text he sent me earlier, when the ring tone announced its arrival as I drove North on Rout One from the realtor’s office, unaware of the caller’s identity until a stop light afforded time to take a glance. Now there is time to fully appreciate his apologetic digital explanation for the delay and look again at his reminder to find him in the Quark Lounge of the H Bar where we can chat in comfort. His unexpected absence also leaves me time for reflection. We are sure to see a lot more of each other in future as I have just moved into his neighborhood, largely under the influence of his advice, and his telling me recently that a house is for sale, and in addition, my own experience in Fauxmont, visiting him, had been decisive. There is also time to survey the scene and so my first sense of Fauxmont as a new home comes through the lively ambiance of the local bar and restaurant. The attentive bartender notices the empty glass of Bass Ale in front of me , and asks if I would like another. “I am meeting Lou Waymarsh in the lounge,” I explain, shaking my head, thinking Lou might be known at his neighborhood bar. The bartender gives no sign of knowing him, and I pay my tab and tip, and put my wallet back in its pocket, preparing to look for him again among the quiet booths in the carpeted Quark Lounge. Before taking so much as a step I am confronted by a friendly smiling woman wearing an expensive, finely cut royal blue blazer. She asks:
“Did you say you’re a friend of Lou Waymarsh?”
The bar seats are all taken and I had been dimly conscious of someone standing close behind me trying to get the bartender’s attention, as I settled my tab.
“Yes” I tell her, surprised at her sudden interruption of my reveries, anticipating Waymarsh’s arrival and studying the other customers crowding in opposite me, and others more distant, I could see walking into the Quantum Que to play pool across the hall.
“I have known him for years. He’s a neighbor and good friend too.”
“Funny I haven’t met you before.” I said, sliding off my stool to stand next to her, in the narrow space between the barstools and the rail separating them from the chairs and tables of the noisy cocktail area extending beside us to a big bay window.
“I often visit him, when he adds me to a few of his neighbors for a barbeque.”
“I don’t go to those much. I don’t eat meat. I mainly know him through our community organization the ‘Fauxmont Guild’.”
She held out her hand and introduced herself: “Diddlie Drates” she said in a business-like manner. She has a blaze of golden rod in her lapel, and there’s some garden soil dried on to the stained knees of her jeans. I walk towards the low light of the carpeted Quark lounge which appears like a dim cave from here in the brilliance of the sunny bay window. She follows and sits down across from me in a booth, without saying anything about it; perhaps assuming that a friend of Lou’s must be her friend too. She goes on and gives me no opportunity to tell her that I was thinking of my chat with Lou as personal and confidential.
“What did you say you do?”
“Oh I didn’t say, but I do as I please.”
“What do you mean? is it a secret of something?”
“No, I write a blog.”
“Are you going to write about me?”
“Yes.”
“Will you send me the URL?”
“Not yet.”
“I want to see this thing before it goes out, okay?”
“Not yet, it is not up yet.”
”It’s not a blog then.”
“True, it is in the form of a blog.”
“Are you sure you know what you are doing?” asked Diddlie looking alarmed.
“No.”
“You better get with it,” she said fiercely.
Her questions and reactions seem impertinent and presumptuous coming from a total stranger who had introduced herself with such polite formality.
“It’s not as bad as you think.”
“Sounds to me like you are lost.”
“I am finding my way now, though.”
“You’re just a gossip like me.” She giggles.
“I am very interested in what you say.”
“Are you coming on to me?”
“Not exactly.”
“I know you’re lost, but come on, just tell me!”
“No I am not coming on to you, but I am interested in what you say.”
“I mean you… well I just don’t get you.”
“Sorry Diddlie. I don’t know at the moment if I am writing a blog of a novel or just a blog.”
“A blog of a novel,” repeated Diddlie, “and that is why you are pumping me huh?” Diddlie giggles and goes on.
“Look, I can’t tell you what you’re doing. You have to figure that out for yourself.”
“True, it’s not your problem. Forget it.”
“Listen, I just want to know where you are coming from. I mean you just moved here, or are about to. You must be the guy Lou mentioned while he was fixing my bike, but I don’t know who you are.”
“I am a writer.”
“Okay, you told me that already.”
“I am writing you.”
“What?”
“Yes, I invented you and now we are getting acquainted.”
“You set me up!”
“Yes.”
“You just dragged me in here for…Well! For what?
“You came to mind. There was no dragging.”
”So why do you have to keep asking all these questions?”
“You’re the one asking the questions Diddlie.”
“Well you said you are interested, so I keep talking, but I also want to know who I am dealing with.”
“I am a writer trying to give readers an idea.”
“You don’t have any readers.”
“Well, hypothetical readers.”
“So you aren’t really talking about anything.”
“I am. I am talking to you about who I am.”
“Yea right, and you are all in your head and you’re lost!”
“You keep saying that.”
“It is true. What do you mean you are writing me? You think you are God or something?”
“No, there’s no need to be so exasperated, I am not playing God, I am just a writer.”
“Is this a put-down? Are you trying to tell me I don’t exist?”
“No no, you certainly do exist.”
“Ah ha, so when is my birthday?”
“I haven’t thought of it yet.”
“Does that mean I don’t have one?’
“You must have a birthday, every one does.”
“You don’t know when my birthday is. You can admit it. It’s okay. See, God knows everything, and you don’t, and that is okay too.
“I would say it is January 2, 1945.”
“You might say it, but how do you know if it is true?”
“I will write about your birth certificate and you can get it out of your top desk drawer and read it later on.”
“Suppose I don’t want to be that old? Just think again okay. You are putting too much behind me. It isn’t fair.”
“Not so much, enough for you to have interesting memories.”
“What about living? To hell with memories.”
“You have a good life here in Fauxmont.”
“You ought to take notice of your character, as you seem to think of me. They can really mess things up if you get them wrong.”
“True.”
“So why can’t I be twenty three and having really good sex with my boyfriend in the privacy of my house before that thing next door went up?”
“You did and also married him.”
“No, I mean now, instead of arguing with you in this booth without any food.”
“You can’t because I am not writing the story that way.”
“Sweetie, you could always change it.”
“No, your role is to be a source of background information.”
“I don’t want a role. I want a life.”
“Yes and you have one.”
“All I have is memories and dumb questions designed to make you look smarter than I am.”
“Diddlie, that is not the idea. You are plenty smart, but you are also worked up about the new big house next door, and other things in your life. You are burning on a short fuse right now.”
“So you write, but I want a life.”
“Yes it is my story, but you have a good life. Not an easy life but a fulfilling one.”
“Enough about me…what about you?”
“What about me?”
“I still don’t know who you are. You just keep saying you are a writer.”
“That’s it.”
“Well tell me more about yourself. Like what do you do?”
“I told you I am a writer.”
“No for a living, come on, you know what I mean… stop being cagey.”
“Anything I say becomes part of the story, and this isn’t a story about me.”
“It could be.”
“I am not writing autobiography.”
“No, but to be fair you might as well put yourself in here with me and get out of your God complex. I’m talking mental health you know. Why should you be the only one with a life?”
“All the characters have lives.”
“Are you a character yourself?”
“Not exactly myself.”
”Oh not exactly myself,” mocked Diddlie. “Are you so lost even about yourself?”
“Whatever I write is what happens.”
“You really do have a God complex sweetie. You’re acting like a deity above it all. No wonder you are so lost. You say you are Lou’s old friend. Then you say you invented me. Now you won’t come and live in Fauxmont.”
“I am living in Fauxmont.”
“But not exactly! Oh don’t start that writer stuff again. You have no exact idea! That’s where you get lost.”
“Yes I do get lost in it.”
“Well how dumb is that?”
“Diddlie we live in different worlds.”
“That’s for sure. You are lost in a world of your own. I am saying, ‘Come back!’ I have a feeling I might like you a lot better if I knew you.”
“Try thinking of it this way: If I mail you a letter to Diddlie Drates, 1664 Oval Road, etc. it will never reach you. The post office will either return it or it will end up in the dead letter bin. On the other hand if you send me a letter in your world, to Fred Blogz at my address on Maxwell Avenue, you can be reasonably sure I will get it.”
“Well what do you know?”
“I don’t know anything until it is written.”
“Talking to you makes me wonder if I know anything at all.”
