So It Is Written
Has anyone brought something they have written? Steven Turner says this in that slow southern Memphis way where the words are like cherries hanging on a bough and he plucks them one by one, taking his own sweet time, smiling like he’s getting a whiff of magnolias, the magnolias he was sitting under when he got his first kiss. Or something like that. He’s wearing a white linen suit with a starched white shirt and a thin black silk bow tie.
The world is unfair. There isn’t a trace of sweat on him. Three layers of clothing. Suit jacket, bulletproof starched shirt, and he’s from that generation that believes a proper undershirt saves the wear and tear on the shirt. Not the slightest trace of perspiration. I’m going commando in my shorts and I’m sweating my balls off. Not because I’m nervous. Not because I am not ready to be the first to read what I wrote the first day of class. Because I knew he was going to ask if anybody brought in some of the work. I am so ready. So why am I sweating? Why is everybody in that class sweating? It’s ninety five degrees, the first day of class on the last day of August in Virginia. The humidity is at two hundred percent. Exaggeration is doubly true. No need to be subtle. If we are lucky, a big thunderstorm will cool the air around five PM for five minutes. Then the sun will come out and the standing water will start to evaporate and add more moisture to the air. I will go home and take my third shower of the day.
I have had time to think all this in the time this southern writer genius, master of the demimonde of Memphis, has said just one sentence. Has anyone brought something they have written?
Not to be impolite, but your damn right, motherfucker. Somebody has brought something they wrote. I should be more polite even though this is just a thought in my head. Mister Turner often goes on about how no one is ever too busy not to be polite. Fine. Not to be impolite, but you are surely correct. Mister Motherfucker. Somebody has brought something they wrote. I got five pages I’m going to pull out right now, fresher than that last cherry you plucked from the bough, your last juicy word.
Then I hear Donna’s voice, quick like a stiletto in a murdering thief’s hands. I’ve got something, Mister Turner.
Yeah, Donna’s got something. Of course she’s got something. She’s got something and I don’t have jack.
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