The Spill

"If you believe in pain as a construct, you should believe in happiness too," Emma said, as I gasped with laughter. She was referring to our dear Professor, a guy who likes explicit detail and tales of tequila sunrises. Professor enjoys the Epic Pain of the Writer: the all consuming fire that separates the artist from the masses. He doesn't believe in Happiness, no no, it's for the faint. He's a great guy, our Professor, but he has a penchant for telling us about Writers. "Here's what Writers do" he will say, looking into our eyes as if to impart some grandiose truth of the universe. Well, the thing is, we're all Writers, dude. Yes, there is the stereotype and maybe we don't fit the bill. How could I. I don't carry a noose in my pocket and I don't smoke cigarettes. But, we know a thing or two. Heels on mahogany table, let me tell you what Writers do. Monday night. I show up at my friend Rose's apartment with a bottle of red wine and some sugar babies. She is on antibiotics, and will be drinking tea, but she is gracious enough to help me uncork. She is pulling the cork up with a corkscrew when the device gets stuck. Rose, being an independent woman, retrieves a tool kit, and this both mystifies and delights me. Using a monkey wrench, she begins pulling the cork up. This is exhausting for my fever laden friend. I sit on the ground, pulling the bottle down, as she uses some other newfangled tool to pull up. I am dragged across the floor from the force of her and then finally, by the grace of God, the cork flies up and red wine spills all over my jeans and onto her floor in an alcoholic imitation of childbirth. This is what Writers do. We sweat and we bathe in wine on and we generally feel inferior to our productive counter parts who will imbue the planet with new design. We just try to get through it.