The Brief Case of the Briefcase Page 2

deteriorated into a pointless narrative culminating with the triumphant trumpeting proboscis of my lumbering and slumbering Saint Bernard.

  What happened? Where in this mission did I fail? What was my point of view and into what hellhole had it led me?

  I reminded myself that I was the author of two previous works. And they both were met with relative success in their limited release. A small publishing house that was no longer operating (for obvious reasons…) had optioned two of my earlier efforts.

  My first novella, What Color Is Your Tutu And Is It Made of Cheese, was an existential thriller where the protagonist, the owner a chain of discount clothing stores specializing in garments for danseurs and ballerinas, was brutally beaten to death with a stripper’s pole in a fit a jealous rage by a street mime turned porn actress turned entrepreneur who went by the name of Candy Handler.

  A sequel to Tutu (of sorts…) was named Tim’s Buck Tooth, an insightful and uplifting drama about an atheist orthodontist whose epiphany comes after he successfully reconstructs the distracting overbite of his patient, a midget named Timothy Trebek (no relation to Alex…) with the Armenian National Circus, who later, in a second career as a foreign diplomat, wins the Noble Peace Prize for his involvement in negotiating settlement of the brutal Tonga Rebel Uprising and subsequent civil war.

  Anyway, those were “the good old days,” and believe it or not ever since, my writing had woefully deteriorated. As clearly evidenced in the excerpt cited above, it had degenerated into a genre resembling something akin to the news bulletins that regularly flash on television screens with loud blasts, buzzes and beeps. The kind that interrupt broadcasts of say, The Biggest Loser or Dancing With The Stars, and instantly anger millions of dedicated viewers. Imagine those eyes (not the brains…) eagerly glued to television screens in the anticipation of being entertained suddenly discovering they’ve been snookered, or even worse, Snookied!

  Sadly, that was how far I’d fallen.

  At any rate, I suspected my writing might improve with assistance from a knowledgeable expert or perhaps an entire team of experts. It seemed plausible. Might I benefit from something along the lines of the color commentary offered up by former professional athletes on Monday Night Football? That sort of thing might be the key to elevating my overall position on and in the literary field. After all, those guys were always well prepared. They knew the score and what to say, when to say it and with the right sequence of words, especially when there was a lull in the action down on the 47-yard line.

  That’s when the tough got going:

  John Madden: “You know, Terry, the center on offense, number 66 out there, Dave Flatbush, talk about a terrific guy. Did you know he graduated from MIT with a PhD in nuclear physics? The guy’s really a genius! And I don’t mean just his ability to read a blitzing linebacker. When he was drafted by the Falcons as a second round pick back in 1998, after talking things over with his wife Angela, she was pregnant at the time with Dave, Jr., he figured what the heck, I should throw in the towel on this research project and head to Flowery Branch for preseason training. Gutsy move, don’t you agree?”

  Terry Bradshaw: “What a tough decision that must have been, Mad Dog. But you know, he’s studied the game of football and with that fantastic Atlanta offensive line coaching staff, Flatbush has developed into first class hiker! It’s like he’s in touch with the pigskin. Come to think of it, he is. Anyway, he’s got great anticipation out there. Three-time first team All-America lineman and quite possibly Hall of Fame material, don’t you think? I have no doubt his move from the lab in Los Alamos was the right choice after all, right Coach?”

  Nevertheless, I felt I needed to call in some back up of my own, some specialist who could help me sort things out. But who was available? Qualified, respected writing consultants don’t grow on trees or advertise in the Yellow Pages, do they? Maybe Craigslist? Individuals like that aren’t easy to find on short notice or in the long run, for that matter. Like lizards in the desert sun, they seemingly hid under rocks or inside air-conditioned mobile homes, depending on their age and financial circumstance, or so I presumed.

  For the life of me I can’t figure out how on earth network news broadcasters and cable television outfits manage to quickly round up pundits (I regard myself as something of a pun ditz, but that’s a separate story…) and seat them before cameras in comfy chairs in fancy studios when tragedy strikes, which it does, nowadays on a daily basis.

  To illustrate my point, a prime example of this phenomenon (there have been many others throughout history but it will soon become clear why I choose to highlight this particular one…) was evidenced in the passing the American statesman, Gerald R. Ford, the first unelected Vice President, who rose to that esteemed office and position of power when another notorious American leader, Spiro T. Agnew resigned after being charged with tax evasion.

  Ford would himself assume the Presidency after the resignation of Richard M. Nixon, who bailed under the leaky pipes and pressures of bad plumbing plaguing the Watergate Hotel, when he illegally authorized “repairs.” Ford then lost his first and only bid for reelection to the highest office in the land, to peanut farmer Jimmy Carter. In doing so, Ford became the country’s first unelected Vice President and unelected President.

  Viewed through the lens of history, Gerald Ford (no relation to Daniel…) is a loser most remembered for his executive pardon of Nixon. That being said, the eight days of news coverage that blanketed our nation’s airwaves following Ford’s passing were a fitting tribute to his legacy, and seemed to last nearly as long as his term of office. We did learn, from the professional talking heads in the course of the solemn casket viewings and subsequent funeral procession, that the man inside the box played football (he was a center, just like Dave Flatbush…) in college and nearly turned pro. How Ford’s decision not to pursue a career as a salaried football player shaped the future course of our political landscape is anyone’s guess and certainly not mine.

  Clearly, Republicans are a joke, Democrats are only slightly less annoying and, let’s face it, we are all doomed. The writing is on the wall, folks. As was said in Fight Club, “On a long enough timeline the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.” It’s difficult to argue with facts.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  And so, with one eye on the computer screen and one ear tuned to the still racketing Beethoven next to my feet, I accepted my fate. I saw the writing on the wall. Or somewhere. The writing was definitely somewhere. I understood it to be nearby. That much I knew.

  It was barely legible. Small print? Wrong font? Eyesight worsening? I fought hard against accepting the truth, but it was (and is, come to think of it, for any of us in all situations…) my only choice. It was over. Finished. Kaput.

  I had to stop. I couldn’t write. Anything. A sentence was impossible. Paragraphs inconceivable. Chapters unimaginable. My “work-in-progress” had flat-lined on the operating room table.

  Since there weren’t any new ideas and the old ones weren’t working anymore either, my writing career came to another, dare I say it, screeching halt. My true passion, my notion of being the real deal, a great and respected author, of having genuine artistic talent, or even something near the ability to express at least one coherent original and creative thought, and to build from that foundation an influential body of work, was abandoned.

  Though I’d clung to it for years, when I sat down and analyzed how I had arrived at that understanding of myself, I felt as though I had, perhaps from the very beginning, held onto a false premise. All I really had was a salesman’s sample case filled with novelty items, shiny trinkets, and costume jewelry; cheap, plastic garbage that no one needed or wanted. My briefcase and everything inside it was shot, worn and tattered, dusty and weak, weary of the countless road trips to nowhere it had taken before.

  Through careless handling and neglect, stuffed and falling apart, it had been woefully abused, crammed full with shoddy ideas, meaningless concepts, mundane observations, and ill
-conceived plot lines.

  I glanced down once again at the floor next to me. There it sat. The bulging, battered storehouse, and it was blowing apart at the seams.

  I reached over and picked it up. As I clutched and lifted, I clung to the notion that it might hold still some secret formula I’d yet to discover. Something I hadn’t noticed before, something magical and infused with real value. I envisioned it, whatever “it” was, as being profound.

  Then the cheap plastic handle snapped off.

  The briefcase crashed to the floor, scattering willy-nilly the pages and pieces of scrap paper that lay before me naked and exposed. Not a single line of the thousands I’d written bore any resemblance to anything worthwhile. The briefcase and everything inside it was an albatross.

  I gathered the heap in my arms. I walked outside and carried it to the dumpster in the alley. I opened and lifted the lid and threw it in.

  I was free at last, a prisoner of my past no more. It remained to be seen, but I imagined being able to move beyond the impenetrable barricade of diffidence that had previously impeded me.

  With renewed vigor and sense of purpose, I gathered my coat, headed out the door and went shopping