September 4, 2002

Today is the day to get yourself some moxie, kid.

I will be in Detroit for Haypenny's One Year Anniversary. Will you?

18

George Foreman realized one thing. In order to get the information that he wanted from Geflen, to find out why all these unworthy people had inspiration and he didn't, he would have to be Relatively Nice.

Ugh.

George wiped his hands on his pants (yes, he had just dried them with the hand-dryer, but that's an example of how gross and sweaty his hands were) and left the bathroom. With his new discovery of his having to be Nice but still having to be To The Point, George picked up his chin in and element manner and did his best version of a smile, as if acting like a nice, direct person should look a certain dramatically prim way as well.

He pulled a muscle in his neck.

"Fuck!"

The entire restaurant turned unapproving glances towards him. George massaged his neck and grimly but still determindly proceeded to Geflen's table.

"Are you feeling all right, Henry?" George asked sweetly, happily noting the absense of chicken flesh from the area.

"Yes, George, yes. Damned thing must have had a bone in it."

George resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Of course, Professor."

"Now, George, I don't mean to be nitpicky, but I'd like to ask you about something you said before you left for the bathroom."

"And what is that?"

"You said, 'We all know that you stink as a writer. So how'd you end up with this thesis?'" (This was in fact exactly what George had said, word for word. Despite the fact that Geflen was a generally useless human being, he had a photographic memory for statements he thought might be made to disparage him.)

George thought for a moment. Then he laughed.

"Why, Professor, I didn't say that!"

"But you did, I believe I remember it quite clearly."

"I didn't say it."

"Yes you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes you--"

"Fine, Geflen," George growled, and suddenly reminded Geflen who exactly was the filthy rich award winning author. Geflen shrank.

"Well, no matter, George, it doesn't matter. But you must have something on your mind to come visit me out of the blue."

"Well, Geflen, I..." George paused and bit his lip. Nice. And To the Point.

"Well, I was wondering how you got the inspiration to write your thesis."

There. He would get the answer and it seemed like a genuine question. Didn't it?

Geflen's eyes brightened.

"George, that's so thoughtful of you!'

George hunched his shoulders to his ears, smirked, and raised his eyes heavenward. He had seen a cartoon character do this once.

"Well," Geflen continued, "I don't mean to sound perverse, but for some reason, when you called me a few months ago, the idea just popped into my head. I don't know. It's like you said one word, and then in my brain it made me think of another thing, and then another thing, and then it made me think of Faulkner, and then suddenly I realized the perfect connection between Faulkner and..."

George stared while Geflen indulged in yet another explanation of his thesis. He couldn't believe it. Somehow, he HAD given Geflen his inspiration. He wanted it back. He had absolutely no idea how to proceed. Was there more to this story?

"Pray tell, Professor, do you think there was any particular word of phrase I used that so inspired you?" He had no idea why he was speaking like a turn-of-the-century British debutante.

"No, George, in fact, I remember looking back, it was something completely unrelated. It was just one of those funny thought processes."

"You're sure?"

"Fairly sure," peeped Geflen, afraid of another back-and-forth with George.

"What kept you working? I mean, past the initial idea?"

"Well, I suppose that once I had the idea in my head, it was all I could think about. And it just naturally unfolded out of my head, sort of."

George felt like punching Geflen in the face. But he decided, instead, that he had gotten enough out of Geflen; he'd have to move on to his next inspiration-recipient. The Nice Side of him debated with the To The Point Side of him on how much longer he had to now put in with Geflen to appear polite.

The Nice Side quickly evaporated.

"Nice seeing you, Geflen," George said, standing up and throwing a $50 bill on the table, "But I gotta go. Good luck."

Geflen stared, mouth open, at George's retreating hulk. Then he saw that the bill was $40. Geflen ordered a $3 cappuccino and a $5 piece of pie.

And yet another waitress has been left unhappy.