Part 3 (1/2)
”Actually, any colour that's not primary disturbs me. But orange the most. I don't like things mixing together. That's why I threw out your hotdog.”
”Oh.”
”I had to tell you that.”
”Okay. Thanks.”
”I'm sorry if this is awkward for you,” said the man, staring intently. ”It's difficult for me, too. I have a profound fear of speaking to strangers.”
”Then, well ... Why are you?”
”It's important for me to face my fears.”
And now Mason could see how much effort this was taking-how the man's huge body appeared locked in place. ”And also you seem like a nice guy.”
Mason, unaccustomed to people telling him such things, took a long drink of water. Then cleared his throat. ”Why did you look?” he said.
”What do you mean?”
”The hotdog. Before you took a bite ... you looked in the bun. Is that what did it for you?”
The man nodded. ”It's a tricky balance. I like the way hotdogs taste.”
”Why don't you give it another shot?”
Again the man nodded, more to himself than to Mason. ”I could come back in the afternoon.”
”Sure.”
”When there aren't any crowds. Okay then.” He held out his hand, steady and practised. ”My name is Warren.”
A wave of nausea flooded Mason. He looked down at the counter until it pa.s.sed. Warren's arm was still outstretched.
”I'm sorry,” said Mason, taking off his plastic glove. ”I used to have a horse by that name.” He shook Warren's hand. ”I'm Mason ... He was a good horse.”
They looked at each other.
”Well, it's good to meet you, Mason. I'll come back after lunch.”
Then he walked away-Mason's dead horse hanging in the air.
Notes on the Novel in ProgressLife is a room: you're born in a room, die in a room, sit in rooms that glide across the land.From the moment of birth the world expands outward, and so does the protagonist-from boy to rebel to traveller to hero.And then, one day, it starts to shrink again (traveller to drifter to living in a box) until the universe is just a room again.The room as narrative device:First, fill it with stuff. Now look around; the objects in the room will turn into stories.When all the stories are told, the room is empty.When the room is empty, the story is over.To research:Phobias, horse trailers, caves, GPS guidance systems.Possible t.i.tle:Room to Move
7.
By his second week as the Dogfather, Mason felt he was getting a handle on things. He was burning fewer hotdogs, not drinking as much and doing less drugs. He'd looked into getting a gym members.h.i.+p and had even worked on the novel a bit.
The hotdog job wasn't that bad-kind of like being an open-air, lunchtime bartender. People were in a fairly good mood and kind of dopey since the snow had melted, like they were still stretching after hibernation. They'd comment on the Dogfather thing, make a lame joke-often quite accurate (You guys laundering money through this thing?) (You guys laundering money through this thing?)-then hang around and whine good-naturedly about their lives. Mason listened and sometimes offered advice. He watched the girls walk by and waited for Warren, who remained his most interesting customer.
They'd figured out a system so that Warren could eat his hotdog. Mason kept a bag of romaine lettuce in the cooler. He applied a line of ketchup to the dog, laid out four spears of onion, wrapped it all in lettuce then put it on the counter. All that was left for Warren was the mustard and the pickles. The lettuce leaf held the juices in. Then, on a whim, Warren added two slices of yellow banana pepper. He confessed to an unsettled feeling. But this time it was more b.u.t.terflies than nausea. He took a bite.
”I was thinking about the colour orange,” said Mason, as Warren continued to eat. ”You're right-I don't much like it either. It's shrill, isn't it? Caution signs, religious cults, convicts ... and those guys-what are they called? Those guys who are always marching....”
Warren wiped his mouth. ”The Orangemen?”
”Right.” Mason laughed. ”The Orange Men.”
Warren nodded as he ate. He seemed appreciative of Mason's willingness to turn someone's irrational fear into rational theory. The hotdog finished, he crumpled up his napkin and dropped it into the garbage. ”So Mason-you're a writer. Where can I read your work?”
”I dunno ...,” said Mason. It was an embarra.s.sing thing to talk about, especially while serving hotdogs. ”There's probably some magazine stuff online.... I'm working on a novel.”
”What's it about?”
He hated this question, mostly because he didn't have a good answer. ”A bunch of stuff....”
”Like what?”
”I don't know: horses ... memory ... different kinds of freedom. It's kind of complicated. And it's about a room that moves.”
”Oh.”
”But actually I'm not sure about that now....”
”Oh?”
”And there's all this stuff that happened in the past-there's like three different time frames, and one of them is still unfolding. It's kind of an adventure story. It's hard to explain....”
Warren nodded. ”What's your last name again?”
Mason told him. Warren wrote it down. Then, as if in return for this information, he said, ”I've fallen in love.”
”Really?”
Warren nodded. They looked at each other. Mason felt he had to say something more.
”What's her name?” It was a lame question and he was thankful when Warren, instead of answering, asked for a bag of chips.
”What kind?” said Mason.
”Dill pickle.”
He handed them over.
”Thanks for the hotdog,” said Warren, then he headed back to work.