the transformation, part I

It's difficult to live with a writer, particularly a bad one. I suppose this isn't really a fair thing to say, having never actually lived with a good writer. They might be better companions. Bad writers, however, are surly and sanctimonious, what with their dedication to their craft and all, coupled with their awkward lack of publications. I can be surly and sanctimonious, though, and have published naught. Perhaps I am a bad writer. The word 'naught' should give you a clue.

The bad writer I lived with was bad for a number of reasons. He wrote what he knew, which I suspect is some trite piece of advice instructors of creative writing throw around when they are hungover, or still drunk. Unfortunately, the main thing he knew was being the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town, a family business that spawned many a story about being the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town. There were only so many places to go with this premise, and none of them were particularly interesting, despite the lengthy descriptions of the color of the sky and the coat hanger in the parking lot and the well-worn carpet. This might have been the primary reason he wasn't a good writer. He also siphoned creativity from various well known, better writers, although not too successfully. If he'd been more accomplished at this literary dress-up, we might now be discussing him as a mediocre writer. Not so though, and along with his writing affectations came the trappings of those he impersonated, or at least the trappings he imagined they had. One week he'd come traipsing into the house wearing a hat he'd picked up at a thrift store, and his gangly incarnation of Ernest Hemingway would hunker down to pen a story about selling an accordion, rife with unnecessary jungle metaphors. The season of Raymond Carver brought dirty sweatshirts, wry looks, and a bold departure in a story about steak. In the summer it was Truman Capote, mint juleps, and a play about a piano salesman with a toupee, and when it rained he'd fill his pockets with rocks and wander around outside, I assume trying to remember what Virginia Woolf wrote. All said, this may have been a second reason why he wasn't so good.

I'm not sure exactly when the transformation happened. I guess I should refer to it as a metamorphosis, in keeping with how we do these things. In any case, the night I found him naked on the kitchen counter, crouched atop the remaining half of the evening's pizza, I was surprised, but not in the way you might have been. I flipped on the kitchen light, and he looked up in a panic, jumped off the counter, and scuttled to hide under the refrigerator. He was tall though, and couldn't fit. Instead, he turned and fled, stumbling down the basement steps. I closed the door behind him, hoping this new and revolting twist to the affectations would subside within a few days. I wasn't sure where he was going with this, and certainly hoped I wasn't going to have to read a draft of it. I replaced the refrigerator magnets he'd knocked down, turned off the light, and sat outside on the back steps, smoking a cigarette. Upon going inside to our bedroom, I found him decked out in a flannel union suit, smoking a pipe, writing by candlelight. "Good to see you again, Abe," I said. "Goodluck with the Gettysberg thing. Please do not set us on fire." Not as painful as I'd thought it would be. Perhaps the naked pizza thing had been meant as a come-on. Just in case, I slept on the couch.