A man can be himself only so long as he is alone*

My childhood friend and more recently my annoying beer drinking pal Buddy Dooley dropped by my pad in Southwest Portland over the weekend.

In the crook of one arm he carried a brown paper bag containing a six-pack of his favorite micro-brew, a pack of cigarettes, a sandwich baggie with the remnants of his pot stash, a pipe decorated in the style of an R. Crumb knock-off, a book of matches, and a book of Schopenhauer's aphorisms.

"I'm ready, are you?" Buddy said, switching on his old-fashioned cassette player.

TS: Did you bring an opener?

BD: You're telling me you don't have an opener?

TS: I don't. I don't buy your fancy-pants beer. Ever heard of twist-offs? Ever heard of pop-tops?

(Buddy pulled a Leatherman pocket knife out of his pants and opened two bottles with the convenient bottle opener provided among the knife's other survival tools)

TS: (drinking and smacking my lips) Mmmmmmm...that hits the spot.

BD: You're welcome, Simons.

TS: What's on your mind today, Buddy? You seem to be in your usual irascible mood.

BD: I'm here for you aren't I? Let's talk about this thing, whatever it is, that you're doing Wednesday night.

TS: The reading...

BD: That's what you call it?

TS: Of course, jackass...

BD: Let me get this straight. You're going to get up in front of a group of people at the Blackbird Wine Shop and Cheese Pooh-pa and read something you wrote?

TS: Cheese pooh-pa?

BD: Do you think this is a wise move?

TS: Um...yes.

BD: Why?

TS: I'm doing it for the vast, suffering, silent, heretofore ignorant morass of humanity that doesn't know I exist.

BD: Whoa...whoa with that, big fella. What makes you certain anybody fucking cares who you are?

TS: I'd like to sell one goddamn measly book, Buddy. Is that too much to want out of life?

(Buddy loads his pipe)

TS: Buddy!!!

BD: What!!!

TS: You can't smoke here. The neighbors will call the DEA!

BD: Give me a break.

TS: I'll get tossed out! I'll be homeless again!

BD: What do you care? You're a poet after all...If Li Po could do it so can you.

TS: Well, put a towel under the door then.

(Buddy obeys and puts a towel at the door base)

BD: I don't get it...You want some of this?

TS: Nah...

BD: (inhaling deeply) Good shit... (exhaling, coughing) So this crowd you're playing to Wednesday in this Pooh-pa. Who are they?

TS: Christ, Buddy. I don't know. Wine drinkers. People who enjoy listening to readings I guess. And stop calling it pooh-pa. Whatever that is.

BD: But why would they bother listening to you? I mean, who are you? It seems to me that you are pretty much a nobody, right?

TS: No, no, no. I wouldn't agree with that...Besides, Deemer will be there, too. He's a somebody, isn't he?

BD: Well, who are they? A crowd of people who like wine? That's it? (long pause) Say you actually could write something worthwhile, something people might like, the question is why should you care if they listen?

TS: Writers want to be heard.

BD: They'll kill you...

TS: Why? Why do you say that?

BD: You'll die on the podium. A shriveling flower casting rays of obdurate and senseless sunlight into the void. The non-meaning which you excel at will be lost in the wine-haze of the evening. A dull silence awaits you. Some might call it doom.

TS: Not a pretty picture...I think.

BD: But good luck.

TS: So you're anti-readings?

BD: Not all of them. Just yours, and anything by Jay McInerney. Sure you don't want some of this?

TS: What the hell. Why not?

(coughing, coughing, loud, long coughing)

BD: Are you okay, Simons?

TS: I'm fine...I think. (weakly, gasping for air) You gonna come to the Blackbird Wednesday night, Buddy?

BD: I'll consider it. We'll see what's on TV that night first.

(click)

*Schopenhauer



TS