" Books "

                                                              “Books”


It’s late at night and I’m awake. Talk about writers block, I have so many blocks lately, I could build an igloo. I’m not really sure where I’m going here with this, because when I write I never know what the pen will do next. That is being honest here. I am sure many of you are like that too. You have a feeling you should write and you just do! I guess I will try my hand at an essay, since I have been mesmerized lately with them. And although I am not quite sure what one is: they seem to be awfully easy to write as far as I can tell.

I had a girl and she left, no big news there. My swollen heart led to a swollen everything after a while. One thing though, she left behind a hell of a lot of books. It never ceases to amaze me what tokens, burdens, remembrances, for-get- me-not, and 'take it back, I don’t want it', items are left behind in a relationship gone bad. It’s almost like they do it to remind you every day until trash day comes, that 'yes' you’re the jerk I left. Daring you to be bold, brave and assertive enough to throw everything left behind out, with that new found manhood / ego; 'I’m over you now and I’m OK' thing. Or else daring you to face the simple fact that she’s gone and you can’t live without her.

Me, I’m from the second lot, spineless, hopeless romantic, teary eyed, foolish type. Not at all like the radicals. No sir! They are of the sort of men that stalk their prey long after the, goodbye’s, farewell, 'see ya, I wouldn’t want to be ya',  have long been spoken.

At any rate, there were all these books that my long lost, departed Sue left behind. Keepsakes, along with multiple copies of certain authors. Favorites of hers for sure. All of them right there on the shelf, where they were placed not 4 years back, in plain view, to announce that not only was an avid reader in the house, but a smart one too. And do you know how I knew that? Well, it was all the books she left behind. She had recommended, and it took her leaving I might add, for me to pick them up while wandering from room to room in disbelief that she left, and finally read. So that’s what I did, with all that time on my hands. After all, they were hers, and this was as close as I could get to her now.

Oh course, I took an interest in a Maine author, where she had come from and was an authority on. And that’s another thing that I am wondering about? You ever notice when you start out in a relationship, people all of a sudden become, learned, schooled, astute, articulate: even down right sophisticated if need be, to win the hearts of there new lover. They will do just about any thing it takes to get them interested. People are chameleons, masquerade-ball goers, and pretentious dupes, showing off their bravado. You know what I mean. In layman’s terms, people put on that veneer, that “I’m interested in everything about you” face, and act accordingly for what ever clever scheme they have hatched prior to the Saturday night bar thing where they met. Or typed into some Internet profile thing, stating they were the best thing since sliced bread. Or as one I saw read, (and yes that means I have been on the Internet too); “sweet, adorable, cuddly, cute, and sexy, middle aged woman seeking honest, loving, caring man, to share intimate walks under the stars, romantic candlelight dinners, travel, and adventure with.

Whatever happened to honesty? And that reminds me, everyone wants honesty. So where is it? For instance, the profile/invitation to meet, should read more like: 45 year old male, with pick-up truck, dog, (complete with his own set of fleas and ticks), seeking woman who can cook, clean, pick up after, wait on, put up with (unless I change my mind) anything I want. And women I saw stated, “I’m high maintenance” If you want some of this, your going to have to pay, i.e. great job, professional, don’t come home without the pay stub, because I’ll check your pockets kind of thing. And by the way, did I mention that the picture of me is really the one that came with the purse or new wallet? Only a few pounds more. Ha!

Well I started out ass backwards I suppose seeing that I was honest, broke, and had extra baggage that would make a Greyhound bus driver wince and scowl at the thought of trying to pack it. Furthermore it can be stated that the taking full mutual interest was too little, too late, and ineffectively put into action until the departure. None the less I began, on recommendations long past, to read E B White. Funny too, is that while we were together, she constantly reminded me she was always right. Jokingly of course.

Men already know they are wrong. That sort of training starts before kindergarten, all the way back to our first childhood lessons on Friday night by mom, waiting for dad to come home, paycheck in hand. Men knew then who the head of the house was. Why is it when, they grow up and grow balls, they miss that?  I have no idea. Briefly, I’ll in all fairness to men, mention that by the same,
'ways and means committee',  mom, women go through training also.

I had the honesty thing down pat, but taking an interest mutually into a book reading, didn’t catch on as it should have.  It took her leaving and me searching every corner of the book shelf to reconnect. And damn it if she wasn’t right again. Even after she was long gone, 1100 miles away; she was right on the shelf at the same time.  Have you ever heard of that advertizement slogan for a phone company, 'reach out and touch someone'?  Well that is exactly what she did to me.

So now that you understand why books were left behind; and by the way, I might add that if it had been yarn or crochet stuff left, I might be in a knitting class right now. Could you imagine my friends knocking on my door to visit?  I would holler, 'come in', while sitting in a  rocking chair, fingers twitching at trails of multicolored cottons, wools, and the sort? I could just see them entering, slapping me in the face, while my telegraph line to the knitting basket, parked aside the rocker asunder, jolted as I grabbed for a piss warm beer I had abandoned long ago. I reply 'Hey, what’s up', in recoil, as if nothing were wrong. They would shout, 'It’s over, get a grip!'; while I would shove everything aside and say, 'I am  OK! I know it’s over.'

She was right you know; so I settled back and began to read old E B White, and quite well it seems. You see I acquired a master’s degree in what makes a Maine woman tick, and how I lost her; although I haven’t dug up any bylines or anecdotes yet, on her return. Not only was she right, but I was tardy, and stupid. Had she just gotten up from the TV, taken the remote from my hand, and replaced it with the book; she would still be here and I would be happy. Because I would not only have been trained by a Jedi Knight, but by the master Yoda,herself. With time to spare, after saving the girl,  I would be living happily ever after, and reacquire my remote.

Case in point is that I have new insight into the intricacies of missing Mainer’s. I also acquired new appetite for essays, both for reading and writing alike. Still, I’m not sure what they are. Seems like when I was reading them, they rambled along, unraveled like a country road, with new synapse connections in my head; and a story emerged that made all the sense in the world. Like some new revelation in life. Imagine all that in only 8-10 pages?

E.B White's read takes me back, to times once enjoyed and deeply missed. Sue used to talk a lot about that. Mom and Pop grocery stores, butcher shops , school with out houses (we had in door plumbing but, hey, I loved her and couldn’t tell her that I had the toilet inside my school). But we both agreed that it was times sorely missed, and life would never be the same again. But when you read about it, you sure do remember it all, don’t you? I think that was what I liked the most about her, she was just plain old fashioned, and hell, since I was a kid, I always thought the stork dropped my ass in the wrong time zone. But that is why I liked her so much. She was a real person, no pretense, no bullshit, you know.

Anyway, in defense of this, I will state that I was hindered from birth. Mom, and the fact that I’m still not well read, spelled doom from the gate here. But maybe, after the jury returns its verdict on this writing, perhaps a reprieve from the governor is in order. God I hope it’s not mom, or Sue, on the bench. Actually I do know the verdict. She called a while back, to remind me that, I’m just an asshole.

But the stories E.B. White unravels seem to just stop short. I mean the end just drops off the page and onto the floor, and I’m still in the boat with him and his family, on the lake where he vacationed as a child. Or in that damn model-T ford, as he and his best friend traveled across the country. And in the short story “Death of a Pig”, Is he making too much fun of his dog? I mean I wasn’t there but the dog didn’t do a damn thing in my opinion. E.B. seems to just makes fun of everything the dog does. Sometimes in a relationship it’s like that too. You can’t do a damn thing right. Anyway, I am almost finished here with this essay thing. Truth is, he loved the dog, I loved reading E.B. White, ("Letters of E.B.White") and Sue, but hell they are both gone now.

Well it’s real early here, I like to write in the wee hours, and since I don’t have an agent, Sue , or a book she left, I have no idea where this will end up. Probably into my briefcase full of scrap papers. I do enjoy writing though. If I could just get someone to buy it, read it, make money and end up on Oprah’s, book of the month shindig, I’d be set for life. “Hey Sue! Where’s that Oprah book on this cluttered shelf?” And they say men are never around when you need them! Who knew?

One last thing here though. The books on the shelves that were left behind, to remind me, etc, etc. Well I fooled her. I didn’t toss them out, armed with beer guzzling friends, and crochet baskets thrown aside. I packed them up and shipped every last one to her. But here is the dilemma.  I am wondering that if I had kept the books, would she have returned? Or is there some other clever ploy, women have, to the men who they leave and are unread, unlettered, and not from Maine? Time will tell my friends,  just keep reading.

S A Gibbins 7-26-06