A perfect dawn, the eastern sky aglow over the dark wood. Mr. Mockingbird runs through his entire repertoire, morning's stout-breasted chanticleer. I stagger about the house like a blind man looking for a lost key. Too much vino last night. Feels like some goon came by and beat me with a stick. My effin kidneys are throbbin. A coupla days ago I had a tipple with Giacomo -- you know, solvin the world's problems over vodka-and-tonics. He looked at me and winked, "Listen, if everybody drank this stuff every day, there wouldn't be any problems to solve."
Inexplicably, my tongue seems to have cemented itself to the roof of my mouth. Forget the Scope, I need Liquid Wrench. Lemme see if I can work that thing loose. I'm irrigatin my mouth like crazy, but I don't have enough courage to use the toothbrush yet. So I make a pot of coffee, spillin grounds all over the counter. Boy, it's hard to handle a measurin spoon when your hands shake.
After gettin properly be-suzzled with Big Gee, I wandered across midtown to see my buddy Rae. We sat outside and watched pretty boys and girls in shiny red shoes and black cargo jeans empty out of the hotels on Seventh Avenue, tryin so hard not to look lost and lonely. Rae ordered a wine and ast me, "You comin to BEA next week?" She's the best party planner in North America. She's also the best party-goer -- if she can't find the heart of Saturday night, it don't exist.
I said, "You know, kiddo, I wish you were runnin the show. This year everybody's gonna need a little lift-me-up, dontcha think? We need the Reverend Al Green to show us the way."
Rae smiled. She'd recently emigrated from Manhattan to Brooklyn and it's done wonders for her psychic energy. "I can practically see into the future now," she said as her smile broadened. "I think you're gonna go places." A cheese plate appeared with a basket of bread. The wine wasn't that great, but I was past tastin. I was guzzlin. Rae and I split up before the sun did its deep dive into Jersey. Like an angel in a fiery lake.
The coffee and Advils are slowly workin. I also discover that I left the bathroom window open last night. Now I got thousands of gnats and moths roamin around the house. Maybe they'll all just go home. I turn on the radio -- don't know why, it's the same show every day -- and some lady with a honey voice starts softly croonin:
I love to be lazy in the mornin'
I love to be lazy at noon,
I love to be lazy in the ev'nin',
And watch the cow jump over the moon.
I love to be lazy at the office,
I love to be lazy at home,
I love to be lazy when I travel,
To see the last few buffalo roam.
I love to be lazy in the water,
I love to be lazy on land,
I love to be lazy when I'm flyin'
through the sky with a drink in my hand.
I love to be lazy in the winter,
I love to be lazy in spring,
I love to be lazy in the summer,
And in the autumn I don't do anything.
I love to be lazy in my body,
I love to be lazy in mind,
I love to be lazy in my spirit,
And leave all my troubles behind.
Somehow I took comfort in her singing, poot. I figgered, maybe it's true that I've been pushin too hard, thinkin about books and the future of publishin and all. Maybe I just need to relax. You know what Quist always said -- "Things'll work themselves out in the end just fine, if you let 'em."