Thank You Thank You Thank You
[The scene: a dinner party.]
DINNER GUEST 3: I just realized I don't have anything for you.
Like arriving at the dinner table with open arms.
Wait, that doesn't work.
Like arriving at the dinner table with a shotgun and a pair of Twinkies.
[Here he mimics holding a shotgun in one hand and a pair of Twinkies in the other. Owing to his smaller hands, he is unable to even mimic holding two Twinkies in one hand, which embarrasses him, and he shoves his hands quickly into his pants pockets. He thinks he can hear the clank of the shotgun hitting the floor, which is odd.]
Which is what happened to me once. Honest. At any rate, it is like arriving to the circus without your sense of humor.
[He pauses, takes one hand out of his pocket, and begins to strike a Hamlet, alas Poor Yorick pose, thinks the better of it, and puts his hand back in his pocket.]
Or perhaps a news anchor without pants.
I once sat in on a newscast, a cold winter night, which isn't relevant, as it was inside, and they had the heating up quite high, so the sweater I was wearing made me sweat a bit, so I was quite glad I wasn't being interviewed that blustery night. And you know, the news anchors, none of them, did not wear pants. Yes, yes, I can feel your shock and awe. A double negative! That rarest of rare! Like a flower on a cliffside in a spring rain with butterflies not yet in season!
So. I. Uh. Umm. I could run out and get a bottle of wine or something, I suppose. Shall I?
[He shrugs at the door, from which he had come only moments before. Hands still in his pocket, he also nods his head back towards the door.]
HOST: It's okay, Charles. Have a seat.
DINNER GUEST 3 (aka, Charles): Thank you.
[Charles takes a seat.]
HOST: We're still not giving you the Booker Prize, though.
disclaimer:
May 18th is a-comin'. We'll see you down at the Arlington Center for the Arts with your books in hand...
Now, you'll note that we're not actually readers from Fenway Fiction, like we've sprung, At Swim-Two-Birds-like, from the text. We're readers of Fenway Fiction. The writers of Fenway Fiction who have become readers, when we stand (or sit, some of us are lazy) in front of an audience, whip out a book, and start reading away. Out loud.
So, in case you were scared by the description, that we'd be getting into some fanciful indulgence, with fictional characters literally leaping off the page, well, "have no fear," I say. I also say, "Buy a copy of the book, come down and have us sign it, and then leave a comment/review on Amazon, before I'm forced to, about the sheer brilliance of the prose intertwined with the subtle intricacies of being a Sox fan, all combining to make this book the sure next best seller thanks to Oprah's magic touch, which she shall surely be applying once she reads such a glowing review of a book."
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Until next week, toots.
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