January 15, 2003

Today is the day to eat something off the floor.

Once again, Bob Sassone, with Professor Barnhardt's Journal, has given me the honor of including me with some pretty illustrious company. Check out our words of wisdom.

31

George Foreman returned to his Georgetown abode, in a worse mood than he had been in weeks. He opened the door and saw the pile of mail that Alexis, his housekeeper, had placed neatly in the large bowl he kept int he foyer. On top of the pile was yet another ransom-looking note. George dropped his bags defeatedly and tore it open.

You might as well give up now

it said. George flung it on the floor only to see another cut-and-pasted letter below it. He opened this as well.

Do you even know what you're doing?

George swept his arm across the table and the bowl tipped onto the floor, spilling mail everywhere and shattering on the flagstones. George was disappointed that this small act of violence didn't bring him any satisfaction. He kicked the door shut and, abandoning his luggage, headed to his kitchen.

George loved his kitchen, but he felt that it would have been better had he had some sort of spouse or servant around to make more use of it. George did not cook, and he couldn't find a housekeeper who did who wouldn't demand more money than what he was willing to grant to 'menial help,' so it was mostly used for cereal in the morning and for storing leftovers. But it was beautiful, with majestic parquet floors (that would invite guests, were there ever any, to try tap-dancing), marble countertops, masculine, brushed aluminum appliances, and that kind of high, sunken light fixtures that at the flick of the switch makes everything seem clean, warm and, above all, rich.

George scuffed his way across the ten thousand dollar floor and checked his answering machine. He almost felt as if he had friends.

From Tom: "Hey Georgie: I'm just making sure you got home okay. We weren't sure you'd make it onto the plane. Anyway, me and the boys just wanted to say that we had a heck of a time and hope you come back real soon. Love you bro, bye."

From his mother: "Hi, George. We just wanted to call to make sure that you're doing okay. We felt kind of bad leaving you, but we had to make this trip. Anyway, we're having a fabulous time and we just wanted to say hi and we love you--Hi George!--" (Ths was George's father cutting in, before the phone call ended.)

From Henry: "George, it's Geflen. Listen, I need some help, if you don't mind. Um... yes. Please call me at my office."

From Lillibet: "So, how's the quest going? Or are you still doing that? Or are you just drunk at home?"

From Meredith: "Aieeeee!!! George!!!! Mom and Dad said that you're coming to visit me soon!!!!! How can youuuuuu dooooo that??? You know how busy I am with my famileeeeee! Aaaargh! I hate you!"

At least, that was what the last message sounded like to George.

He sat down, not returning his phone calls, although he was, of course, piqued by Geflen's.

George did not want to visit his sister any more than she wanted him to visit. So, he would try writing again.

George headed to his study, lit a cigarette, and, without thinking, began to write.

In some ways, it felt like old times. It was like George was put under anaesthetic sometimes; he sat down to begin, and then suddenly, hours or even days later, he woke up to find himself finished.

This time, George woke up after 10 or 15 or so pages. He examined what he had read.

It was a short story that he had written for the New Yorker a few years earlier, nearly word for word. Except that this time, he had written it from an obscure character's perspective, instead of from the original protagonist's.

Not exactly a full recovery, but in a way, George was enthused. He nearly called his brother, but decided to get drunk again instead.