Part 4 (1/2)
”Were you, um ...?”
”Funny?” said Warren.
Mason shrugged, half apologetically.
”What? You don't think I could be funny?”
”I'm just asking.... What kind of bits did you do?”
”Bits?”
”Or whatever ...”
”Mostly they were, you know, personal anecdote stuff-honest things about my life, but with a humorous slant....”
Mason tried to imagine it: Right onto a tire jack ... I mean really! You can never find one when you need it!... Did I mention I'm short a t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e? Trust me: girls just love it. They're like Oh! Didn't Hitler have that...? By the way, I have a fear of people looking at me. No, I'm serious-can you please stop looking at me! Right onto a tire jack ... I mean really! You can never find one when you need it!... Did I mention I'm short a t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e? Trust me: girls just love it. They're like Oh! Didn't Hitler have that...? By the way, I have a fear of people looking at me. No, I'm serious-can you please stop looking at me!
Canadian audiences were particularly receptive to Warren's brand of counterintuitive, confessional humour. He scored a two-month gig at a racetrack outside Toronto, rented an apartment, won six thousand dollars on the trotters, quit comedy, enrolled himself in a computer programming course, got a job and now-six years later-had fallen in love with a woman named Carolina.
Nowadays he liked to read and go for walks. His favourite thing was to walk down to the lakesh.o.r.e when the fog rolled in. He spent a lot of time alone.
”I guess you're right,” said Warren. ”I wasn't very funny.”
9.
Mason shuffled cards and drank, thinking about Warren. Usually, neurotic people drove him kind of crazy, but Warren was different. Right from the start he'd confronted his fears, even as his life had become more dangerous-a hostile world of stilettos, worms and broken tire jacks. Mason could identify with that. Not that he himself had ever been a fearful person-quite the opposite-but, like Warren, he'd sought out danger, had decided early on that middle-cla.s.s life would make him soft, and set out in search of trauma. And now here he was-a drunken, traumatized thirty-year-old hotdog salesman writing love letters to people he'd never even met. And still he wasn't particularly scared. But he was was impressed by Warren. impressed by Warren.
People had this romantic view of facing down their fears, as if only good could come of it. Warren could testify otherwise, and yet he kept on doing it. Case in point: this love letter Mason was supposed to be writing. It was a b.a.l.l.sy move on Warren's part. At every step-approaching Mason, commissioning the letter, delivering it to a woman named Carolina-it must be freaking him right out. The least Mason could do was start to write.
He put aside the cards then carried his drink to the desk. He sat down, turned on the computer and picked up a book of matches. With his right hand he pushed the left-most match out and around the edge of the book, turned it in his fingers and struck down at the flint. The match-head burst into flame. He lit his cigarette then a candle.
He didn't bother blowing out the match, just threw it over his shoulder, where it smoldered, then flickered out. Mason laughed out loud and took another drink. He turned up the music, trayed his smoke and did a line.
Leaning forward, he began to type.
Warren in Love-Take OneSince the moment I saw you, things have made sense. And that's saying a lot for me. I haven't had that sensical a life so far. (Whoaa ... According to my spell-check sensical's sensical's not actually a word.) I've had a life nonsensical, is what I mean.... not actually a word.) I've had a life nonsensical, is what I mean....
Mason sat back. In some ways he liked the idea that Warren, a non-writer, would be spell-checking his way through the letter. And it was kind of refres.h.i.+ng to be working on something other than his novel, like he was feeding the good dog inside him more than the bad. Sometimes that's all you could do: give the good dog an edge. It did bother him a bit, though, that he'd thought sensical sensical was a word. was a word.
Shake it off, Shakespeare.
He lit another smoke.
His job was not necessarily to put Warren in a true light-a multiphobic, unit.e.s.t.i.c.l.ed, manslaughtering ex-comedian looking for love-but rather a good good light. The trick was not to freak the lady out. There'd be plenty of time for her to get to know him. light. The trick was not to freak the lady out. There'd be plenty of time for her to get to know him.
So what could he write about?
It's a love letter love letter, Einstein. Write about Love.
Warren in Love-Take TwoLove is feeling big without tripping over your own feet.Love is the kind of fear you can do something with.Love is always enough to eat, and a haven from the plagues.Love is spooning beneath cotton sheets with a fan blowing cool air across your face.Love is a dog.Love is all we need ...
s.h.i.+t.
He poured another drink.
”You know what I think the problem is?” Mason flipped the bun, then took it off the grill.
”What's that?” said Warren.
”Carolina. You haven't told me anything about her. It'd be easier if I knew who we were in love with.”
”Hmmm.... That is is a problem.” a problem.”
”What do you mean?”
”I just don't know her that well.”
”I thought you were in love with her.”
”Well, I know her that that well.” well.”
”I've already got a headache, Warren.”
”Sorry.”
”What does she look like?”
”She's beautiful.”
Mason waited.
”Caucasian. Brown eyes. Five-foot-nine.”
”Well, that's romantic.”
Warren took a moment, then spoke: ”Her eyes are almond-shaped, like a cat's-but with only two eyelids, of course. Cats have three, you know? I think it's called the nict.i.tating membrane.”
”Now that that I can use,” said Mason pulling an invisible pen from behind his ear to scribble it down: ”No nict.i.tating membrane.” I can use,” said Mason pulling an invisible pen from behind his ear to scribble it down: ”No nict.i.tating membrane.”
”She's got a small mole on her upper lip.”
”Okay ...” Scribble, scribble Scribble, scribble. ”Got it.”
”She's very pretty.”