This morning he told me, “I have never been in love on Valentine’s Day before.”
When I hung up the phone, I tried to weigh those words against the measure of my own memories of Valentine’s Day. I thought of elementary school, of making valentines for our mothers. We crafted lopsided hearts of red construction paper folded down the middle, outlined in number-two pencil, and cut out clumsily with blunt little scissors. (The green-handled lefty scissors never cut worth a damn.) For decoration: borders of white paper lace, globs of Elmer’s glue, magic markers, and stickers depicting bouquets of flowers and bow-and-arrow-wielding cherubs.
Mrs. Martineau is not going to be happy about the spy satellite in my front yard. It doesn’t matter that it’s not my fault. As far as she’s concerned, I can’t do anything right. In her narrow little mind, the hunk of scorched aluminum and copper jutting out of my azalea bed will be just one more sign of my anti-social tendencies, like my habit of putting the recycling bin out by the curb before 7 p.m. on the night before recycling day, or the “parade of questionable characters” who come and go from my house at all hours.
Things started off okay with Mrs. Martineau. On the day I moved in, she brought over a plate of cookies.
By the time I got to Angie’s neighborhood, the ambulance and the highway patrol cars were gone. I tried to find any sign of an accident, a mark on the pavement or something out of place. But what she’d said on the phone hadn’t been too clear on details, so I wasn’t even sure if I was searching in the right spot. There, in front of the Diamond Shamrock, where the road makes a lazy s—were those skid marks on the wet asphalt? Had that light pole always tilted a little to the right? I think maybe it had.
I’d driven to her house a thousand times, but not usually in the early hours of the morning, not usually after being woken up from a hangover sleep by a hysterical phone call. And not very often in the dark, in the rain, …more
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the ones who didn’t make it to “escape velocity.” About my parents, who were already past their seventies when the longevity therapies were introduced. About my brother, one of the last victims of cancer, before we understood how it could be turned off and on at will. I think most often about my baby sister. She couldn’t overcome her moral objections to life prolongation, and so I watched her age catch up with mine, and then I saw her overtake me, grow old, and finally die of a disease that had been all but eradicated in our generation. We were of the generation that came to be called “The Millennials,” both because of the timing of our births and because we were the first humans to live a thousand years.
It’s going to be different this time. I’m going to be more patient with my next creation. I’m going to play the “merciful and just” role instead of the “angry and vengeful” thing. I’m not going to give them tests they can’t help but fail. I’m not going to throw temptation in their way every time they turn around, then blame them when they fall. I’m not going to demand sacrifices—no first-born sons, no bloody, smoldering animal parts, no prophets or messiahs to be swallowed by whales or nailed to crosses. I’m not going to require them to glorify me. I’m not going to ask anything of them at all. I’m going to recognize their limitations and try to be okay with it. I’m not going to shroud myself in mystery. I’m not going to leave any doubt about …more
My first night at David’s house was the day we sold his coffee pot.
In April 2007, I decided to sell my house so I could run around the world and play. I didn’t reach this decision lightly; it was the culmination of a lot of agonizing and soul-searching and talking with friends and coaches about what it would take to give up the old bungalow where I’d lived for 16 years and housed my business for the last eight.
I asked my friend David how he’d feel about having a roommate. With his consent, I started plans to make his spare bedroom my pied-a-terre in Houston—a home base for whatever globe-trotting playboy lifestyle might come next. And I went to work on getting my house ready to sell.
I’ve signed up for a “50/50 Subscription Class” offered by one of my favorite writing instructors, Max Regan. “Students will receive a writing exercise via e-mail each day and will write at least one page of text a day,” says Max’s introduction to the course. Fifty days, fifty pages—hence the title. For more information about the course, visit Max’s 50/50 blog.
The class provides no mechanism for feedback; its purpose is merely to inspire and stimulate participants to cultivate or expand their every-day writing habit. I’m planning to post my 50/50 output here, however, so that friends and fellow writers who’ve expressed interest or curiosity about my writing can take a look and give me some comments. [ View the archive of all my 50/50 pieces. ]
If you’ve found your way here, either because I invited you or just by accident, I’d love to know what you think. Please post your feedback as a comment on the posting to which it applies, or if you’d prefer not to make them public, . (Or call me on the phone if your critique is too scurrilous to put in writing.)
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