I attended a birthday dinner at a small restaurant on Notre Dame street a few years back. I showed up solo and late. I hate being late. I’m never late. Traffic jam. Backed up sewers lead to flooded streets. Twelve people were seated at the table when I arrived. They were having cocktails and waiting for me. The birthday boy saved me the seat next to him.
Jackpot.
I’m lucky thirteen.
I had a phenomenal rabbit risotto that night. I always order risotto when its on the menu because I love guessing if it’s instant or made from scratch, and because it’s rarely done to my liking. I’m disappointed most nights. That night I wasn’t. Sometimes being constantly disappointed makes the times that are good so much better. No one at the table was more than an acquaintance except for birthday boy. I spent the better part of the meal in my head. Perfect. Sometime between the main course and dessert one of the dinner guests accused me of being bored. So I reluctantly “audibled” into small talk mode. I hate speaking to more than one person at a time. It’s always trying and it usually leads to being misquoted. Broken telephone. The birthday boy’s lady friend asked what my next book was about, so with a straight face I told her and the rest of the table that it was about “the bloodiest gang war in North American history”.
One guest blurted out “a book about the 5 families?”
Another chimed in with certainty “Nah. The Blood and Crips”.
“The motorcycle gangs of Quebec. The late 90′s.” I said.
I bit my lip and held in a smile. I didn’t know we were playing a guessing game.
Then I said “A buddy of mine is in law school. He is doing an independent study of sorts for class credit. He’s researching anti gang legislation. He keeps hitting me with research info but in point form. Bullet points.”
That part was actually true. I added that I was calling the book Maitres Chez Nous, and that the book cover would have crossed ball peen hammers on it. I described the cover in detail. I told them that the cover would pay homage to old labor union logos or maybe I would just do the no-brainer and do a play on a biker patch. Everyone looked super puzzled. They didn’t know what I was talking about but they played along. Later on I said that it would be a good idea to keep a ball peen hammer under the drivers seat of their vehicles. I told them to slide a measuring tape and some small scrap pieces of aluminum under the seat as well. That way if push came to shove the local authority could never accuse them of having a weapon in the vehicle. I promised them that the hammer would really do the trick if they ever got bit by the road rage bug.
Jokes.
I kept that going for an hour before I let everybody know that I wasn’t actually going to make that book.
We all shared a laugh.
A few days later I got a call from a store that carries my books. The voice on the phone told me that they had heard my next book was about the history biker gangs and that it was gonna be out in a few months. They were also told that they heard i had spent a bunch of time in Oakland and Arizona researching for the project.
Sweet.
I got off the phone. Fuck my entire life. That he said she said. The rumor mill. You can’t even make a joke these days.
A few weeks pass. I’m over at the Adair house having dinner with the family. I tell Dylan about what had happened and I tell him that I’m going to write a short story about it for the book I was actually writing. I asked him to come up with some art work. He does/did. Then I put that book on ice. It’s not coming out. So yeah. Anyways. I keep the artwork Dylan created up on the wall in my workspace. It reminds me about how much I hate broken telephones.
This entry was written by , posted on February 10, 2011 at 8:26 pm.
Filed under The cost of living, Voices in my head.
