Masthead

On the Problem of Inertia

The bar has become crowded. There's a woman sitting alone behind you wearing a dark green hoodie. Her chair is close to yours. Too close. It's weird. Maybe she's listening to us. You sip your beer, then you apply some lip gloss. You're not eating your veggie burger because that last cigarette put your stomach off. I say:

"I can imagine that there are people who would pay money to read what I write. But I can imagine there are a greater number of people who would pay money not to read what I write. But either way, it's not about money. It's just about finding these two groups. And making the former all wet and inspiring great rage in the latter, ya know?"

You look pale and not well, but you manage a laugh. You touch your hand to your forehead. You say:

"You don't inspire great rage in anybody."

"I know. And I hate myself for that."

You start to take a bite of your burger, then you put it back on your plate. You say:

"Look, the main problem is one of inertia."

I dip some greasy fries in mustard and put them in my mouth. I chew, and I say:

"Inertia. Yes. Because people will wake up in the morning and just read what they normally read, won't they? Or they'll read what Oprah or NPR tells them to read. They'll read that dose of bad news that comes in the paper or on the screen. Or they won't read at all. Just surf aimlessly, or watch that box, or follow that twitter."

"Or fuck themselves."

"Right. Or fuck themselves. Have a wank in the shower. Then eat that cereal and swallow that juice and go to work. Or go to the doctor, or walk their dog, or teach their kid how to use the potty, or bring their car for that oil change, or any number of other things a person does with their day other than read what I write."

You scoot your chair back and it bumps into the woman sitting behind you. You say:

"I'm gonna go vomit."

"Okay. Can I eat your fries?"

Category:

More Recent Posts

My dad used to tell me there were two Rita's. I never really knew what he meant by that, but I always felt vaguely guilty about it. But he assured me it was a "gift." He said he had two "hims," as well. He also said I would be like him one day. And Christ, I hope that isn't true. Because both "hims" were killed by a black bear as they were escaping from their mistress's second-story window. See? Turns out at least one of his hims was an idiot. I have a deep suspicion I'm harboring one of those myself. An idiot. Excuse me: a gift. . . .

And I think about how the day before I had been crying into my hardwoods, scratching at the floor and thinking of the best way to die. And how the night before I held that bartender down on the dirty floor of the supply closet at the Main Street Tavern (I'm stronger than I look) and I rode that drink-slinger's Salty Dog until it wept. . . .

We are smoking cigarettes on the front porch. It's 25 degrees and it's hard to tell our breath from the smoke. I say: "The thing is, that's what I used to do. Write about me. About us." . . .

There is a fountain in the hotel. Sometimes I sit on the stone ledge and toss pennies into it. And I think that if I believed in wishes, I'd make one. But mainly I just like the action of tossing the pennies and watching the water ripple as each one hits the surface and sinks. The little plunk, plunk, plunk of it. The way I can cause this series of events to unfold. And the slight variations from one throw to the next. The hopeful anticipation it brings: that this time I will see something different. . . .

Mike Case was a good man, mostly. He usually told the truth. And he often was faithful to women. Whenever he committed one of the seven deadly sins, he felt bad about it almost every time. He said his prayers whenever he was scared about his own mortality. The minister at the church in town even knew him by name. And he'd call him by it every Christmas and Easter. Yes, as men go, Mike was a pretty good one... . . .