Curtis calls for lunch. He’s paying, wants to “pick my brain.”
“Of course!” I accept too emphatically. Curtis is a recent friend with pal potential. We prize pals more in retirement. Career kept me careening through my decades, too pressed to pause, too focused for affection. Passion may ignore practicality, but friends must fit. Most business bonhomie is faked – a hutch to keep hunters from the cold. Quit hunting and the friendships vanish. Selling being my business, I numbered such friends by the dozen. I believed in our affinity – “a friend in need is a friend indeed,” right? – and looked forward to our get-togethers – from cupidity, granted, but also collegiality. Friendship feels fine, even faux.
Retired, I’ve no practical reason to phone (or text) except to consult a doc. Happy amidst my books, why bother? My instinct these days is hermetic – from philanthropy, I’d argue, not misanthropy. Am I not embracing you with my words? True, convening via email for a few minutes doesn’t equal face-to-face, but most of you are far and, nowadays, unfamiliar: isn’t a passing word preferable to none? If I seek to meet in person, it’s because I crave you singular, not you plural, my motives passionate, not pecuniary.
Curtis has the makings of a new dance partner. He reads me, for starters – catnip for any writer. His curiosity ranges, as does his vocabulary (needless to say!). His grin ingratiates. He’s fun – seems to enjoy my company – and has time – bingo – three lemons on the slot machine, maybe even plums.
But now this. “Pick your brain” prods goosebumps. During our Roman sojourn, “pick your brain” often meant about Italy, museums, hotels, etc. We enjoyed sharing what we’d learned. These days the only subject I’m the least bit expert about is what I’m doing now – unless it’s dandling a dog. And about writing I’m loath to advise except to say, if you need guidance – from me or anybody – you shouldn’t bother, because writing is impossible, dangerous, superfluous, and unremunerative. Do it only for the reason you extrude any bodily excrescence – because you can’t not.
If Curtis were a lifelong friend, that’s what I’d tell him, but our friendship is fledgling, tentative, and such pronouncements sound pompous, off-putting. Writing as masochism? – gimme a break! Am I suffering typing these sentences? Hardly – I’m having a ball – the intricacy of this topic entices me. But writing is what I’ve been up to pretty much daily for fifty-plus years – it’s what I do, all I know how to, I shrivel if I can’t. To take up this activity recreationally – in your sunset years – would be like embarking on an opera career because you hum in the shower. Plus, you’ll be burdening your friends and likely embarrassing yourself with your undercooked prose. Please, Curtis, don’t.
Do I risk such counsel? Fat chance. “If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend,” wrote E. M. Forster, “I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.” Substitute “vocation” for “country” and you’ve got my sentiment. I will tell Curtis what he wants to hear – Go for it, bro! – praying he doesn’t delve too deeply into my encouragement and angling to change the subject. Even sturdy friendships can’t tolerate unwelcome candor. Writing – one’s life – causes introversion, disillusionment, and frustration at one’s inadequacy. Its occasional charms hardly outweigh its inevitable pain. From the outside, it may look glamorous, but Achtung!
This is what I will not confess, unless – here’s an idea – I make this missive a rebus “to whom it may concern” and change my friend’s name to Curtis.