The Empty Chair by Bruce Wagner

Author:Bruce Wagner [Wagner, Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780399165887
Amazon: 0399165886
Barnesnoble: 0399165886
Publisher: Blue Rider Press
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

So of course I got on that plane when he called—to Delhi. I’m afraid that’s the best segue I can manage at the moment. It’s hard getting back into it after a break.

Tell me, Bruce, how badly am I fucking up? Have I “come a cropper,” as Kura used to say? I probably could be telling the story much better. But you can change things around later, no? With the editing? You can sand down the rough edges . . . I’ll pick up steam—you’ll see. I’ll try to be more articulate. You don’t know how much I’ve been reading [her old journals]! There’s so much freakin’ material. You know what I can do? I actually can try to—I’ll try to do a little more editing in my head. Edit the thoughts before they come out my mouth . . . O? You think that’s a mistake? I don’t mean edit-edit, I’m not too good at that. I just mean be a little more mindful.

Anyway, we’ll see. We shall see, said the blind man. To the deaf girl . . .

The Roller arrived at 7:30 with yours truly toddling out half-an-hour later, just as the sage predicted. Following Kura’s script, a chauffeur in full livery smoked a morning cigarette whilst leaning against that fleshy part between bonnet and withers. Once I came into view, he flicked his butt to the curb and snapped to attention. We barreled down 110th Street and the sheer movement coupled with the ineffable mystery of wholly unexpected adventure shot little sunbeams through the clouds of my depression. Travel has always been my drug. The stubborn gloominess shifted, like items in an overhead bin. In my experience, moroseness grows in direct correlation with the time spent gazing at one’s own navel—and shrinks upon fixing one’s gaze on another’s. I was already thinking about Kura and our imminent reunion, which further brought me out of myself.

We drove straight onto the field. It was a big plane, maybe too big. (I know my doctors and I know my jets.) Not gauche, but gosh!—pure Kura. Two pilots and a “hostess” waved from the top of the stairs. I felt like I was entering an old photograph of some starlet having her moment; I got butterflies climbing the airway.

I retired to my cocoon-ready cashmere bed straightaway, the cabin ringed with orchids. (I never did see that elusive doctor, until we landed.) She brought tea then left me alone. I nestled in to ruminate. Taking off, I thumbed the nubs of my two fingers and something about the whole situation made me laugh out loud . . . I never thought about the cause or effect of my mutilation anymore—I’d been running from those memories for 30 years. The ruined hand of a cowardly witch. I was closing in on my fiftieth year: twitchy, witchy, barren and bitchy, out of season and out of swords. I wondered how many flatfoots he put on my tail, anyway. They call that “intel,” don’t they? “Show intel” .

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.