The Writing Class by Willett Jincy

Author:Willett, Jincy [Willett, Jincy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2009-05-26T04:00:00+00:00

Just between you and me and the brickbat, Dearest of D’s, I’d have given anything to see her fall..

Seventh Class

The Elliptical Quality of Speech

Syl lived in a condo. Having never visited one, and on the basis of Syl’s high-energy, dumb-jock persona, Amy had expected some kind of bachelor colony, a warren of wet bars, whatever they were, and gyms and pool rooms, and a parking lot full of Hummers and sleek little sperm cars. But the building was genteel running to seedy, a white stucco two-story scribbled with bougainvillea, no doubt magenta (the common San Diego variety)—it was hard to tell in the dark—and what cars she saw were for the most part well-kept sedans, some junkers, and a few vans with handicap plates. She didn’t recognize a single car and checked her watch. She was five minutes late for class. Where were the others?

“Where are the others?” asked Syl, peering beyond her as he let her into his place.

He sat her down in a worn brown velvet La-Z-Boy and poured her a Diet Coke, pausing at a window on his way back to scan the parking lot. “I don’t get it,” he said. “We can’t both have the wrong night. Can we?”

Amy didn’t see how. “I called Ginger last Sunday, right when I called you. She said she was coming.” Amy had called them both because neither one had mailed her a story to discuss. Both apologized and promised that they’d have copies to pass out on Wednesday, and that they’d read from them out loud, and take whatever instant feedback they got. Amy hated this and would ordinarily have insisted on rescheduling; but this was not an ordinary group, and discipline had obviously broken down because of the Sniper’s shenanigans. She’d left it up to both of them to make the necessary calls to the other group members, and Syl was now insisting that he’d called his half of the list, and Ginger had assured him that she’d called hers.

“I just talked to Marvy on Monday,” Syl said. Syl was distraught. He had obviously cleaned up his living room—Amy could see vacuum tracks on the carpet—and there were three huge bowls of fluorescent popcorn and nachos side-by-side on his coffee table. The condo was roomy, underfurnished, and impersonal. There was nothing hanging on the walls, no photos propped up on the cherry veneer Target workstation (identical to Amy’s own). On the floor, arranged in a semicircle at Amy’s feet, were large plaid pillows, obviously brand-new. If it weren’t for the crumbs the vacuum had missed and the smell of old burned pizza and beer, Amy would have wondered if he’d moved in today, just for the occasion of the class.

Syl’s place was familiar to Amy, in a way that reminded her of the taunting tape recording of her own voice. It wasn’t her place, but a rough facsimile, and recognizable once you adjusted for the absence of books and basset. He must be divorced, she thought, divorce being

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