One day when I was out of work
I drove to
I came back by the coastal route and stopped to eat
fried mullet at The Oaks, in Panacea. At the cash register,
they had a new edition of The Living Dock at Panacea.
I had read it, but no longer owned it. I gave it away, or it
was in storage. Besides, this edition had illustrations of watercolors
painted by Walter Anderson. I bought the book. A man asked me,
“Do you want me to autograph that for you?” I said, “Are you Jack Rudloe?”
He admitted that he was. I said, “Yes, please inscribe it, `To Brenda Saunders,
happy birthday, Jack.’” He said, “Are you Jack Saunders?” We had read
each other’s books but had not met. We had a mutual friend, Em McElderry.
I knew Jack would tell Em about the meeting and Em would laugh.
Then I would tell him and he would tell me Jack’s version.
Writers are always writing. Always telling each other stories.
At-Ease: Stories I Tell To My Friends. In my case, As-Is:
Stories I Tell to a Hole in the Ground. Midas has ass’s ears.