14.

Dick Dubonet’s father had been a lawyer with a small personal practice. He died of a heart attack when Dick was seventeen, leaving trust funds for Dick and his mother. Dick’s became available to him on his twenty-first birthday, just in time to save him from law school. He finished his B.A. at Lewis & Clark and spent a couple of years skiing, first at Timberline, then on to Aspen and the ski patrol, where he was also a member of the Torch Team, holding a flaming torch as he and the other patrollers performed their nightly ceremonial, the Descent of Fire. He took a lot of notes for a novel about the ski patrol. He’d known for years he wanted to be a writer, and he made sure to do a little writing every morning. His trust fund gave him a little over a hundred dollars per month. It wasn’t great but it was a base. It took the major worry out of life, left him free to travel, to look around, to meet girls, to make friends.

But instead of being a happy ski bum, Dick was miserable. It was a capacity of his, to be unhappy for no reason. Maybe that was why he saw himself as a writer. There was a famous novelist living in Aspen, Leo Norris, who’d written three best-sellers, big fat books Dick could hardly work his way through, but they’d made old Norris rich and famous, and Dick would always pay attention when Norris came around. He had a big spread outside town with a steady stream of glamorous visitors. When he came to town to party he was always surrounded by beautiful people, although he himself was a little gnome with fierce red eyebrows and voice that could slice bacon. The first thing Dick noticed about Leo Norris was how unhappy he seemed, how unsatisfied with all the things that should have made him happy. Dick once ran into Norris at the little grocery next to the Aspen Lodge. They were both buying instant coffee, and both wanted the last jar of Folger’s. Dick actually had it in his hand when Leo Norris pushed his angry face into his and all but snarled, “I was just about to reach for that.”

Dick’s first thought was tough titty, but he didn’t say it. The man’s rudeness was shocking, even to a member of the ski patrol. He clearly wanted Dick to give him the jar and take some lesser brand for himself. He probably knew that Dick knew who he was, and was hoping his fame and wealth would entitle him to the Folger’s. But it was a cold morning, Dick had a slight hangover, and there was a nice girl waiting in his bed.

“Better luck next time,” he said to Leo Norris, and was amused to see the famous writer actually bite his lip in frustration. “Oh, hell, take it,” Dick said, and handed over the jar. He made a mental note not to become an asshole.

Eventually Dick grew tired of ski bum talk. He burned his notes for a novel and returned to Portland, found the perfect bachelor’s pad, and settled into learning to write. He was an orderly person, and knew that the best way to succeed was to work hard and be thorough. He kept records of his expenditures, which were few. Being a writer cost almost nothing: typewriter, twenty-five dollars, a nice little used Smith Corona portable; paper, a dollar a ream, plus carbon paper and newsprint for second sheets; manila envelopes and stamps; and that was about it. He was in business.

Of course there were all kinds of writing. He wanted to try them all, but the important thing was to get some short stories written, to break through the publication barrier, to get paid for his work. Then branch out. He read all kinds of magazines, looking for ideas. Read mystery stories, science fiction, romance, straight fiction, everything from the Saturday Evening Post to Rogue. When he found a story that appealed to him, he’d sit down and doggedly retype it, learning the construction, learning the tricks. And every morning he’d get up, drink two cups of coffee, read the Daily Oregonian, then sit down at his shiny black typewriter, crack his knuckles, and write at least a thousand words. Seven days a week, no matter who stayed overnight, or how he felt, or whether it was a holiday. If there was a girl in the apartment, he’d explain to her carefully that he had this obligation to write. Most took it in good grace and found their way out. Some he had to indulge, even take home or sit over coffee with, but eventually they’d be gone and he could sit down at the machine.

Tap tap tap, out came the stories, usually ten to twelve pages. Dick typed his first and second drafts single-spaced, with narrow margins, on both sides of the paper. The third and final draft he typed on fresh bond, double-spaced, formatted as he’d seen in Writer’s Digest. He kept a record of every story he mailed out. When the ten by twelve manila envelopes came back he slit them open without any hope in his heart, removed the story and the rejection slip, read the slip, and then put the story into a fresh envelope and sent it to the next magazine on his list, which started at Playboy and ended down among the pulps. There were magazines that kept your material forever, and others that would print you without paying. He avoided these, and carefully read the Writer’s Digest reports. He didn’t send his stories to the New Yorker, Esquire, Atlantic Monthly, or Harper’s. He didn’t consider himself good enough yet. He stuck to girlie books, mystery books, and sci fi books. Now that he was a pro he no longer thought of them as magazines.

He could maintain this existence on his small inheritance because he was a careful spender. Much as he loved women, he’d resolved not to marry or even get serious until he had at least fifty thousand dollars in the bank. That was a comfortable distance and so he was shocked to find himself in love with Linda McNeill.

After that first night together, Dick did not want to let her go. He wanted her here, in his apartment, where could look at her, touch her, talk to her. It was like suddenly discovering you needed heroin, and lots of it. He knew it would be an awful mistake to let her know how he felt, but after only a little while he knew he could hide nothing from her.

“I love you,” he blurted. He’d been looking at her skin, her incredibly white skin, just going over her body an inch at a time, stroking her, brushing his lips against her, while she lay back in his bed smiling.

“You do, huh?” She touched him on the shoulder.

“I say that to all the girls,” he said, trying desperately to recover himself, but she laughed.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Which don’t you believe?”

She put her hands into his hair and turned him so their eyes met. Hers were calm enough, even amused. “I love you too,” she said. “But we aren’t going to get married, are we?”

“Gee, I hope not,” he joked.

“That’s good.” She pulled him gently up to be kissed. Her lips actually seemed to burn him, he was so sensitive.

They stayed together for three days. On that first morning Dick had at one point said, “Well, here’s my routine. I gotta write for a couple of hours. You’ll have to leave, but we can get together this afternoon, unless you have something to do . . .”

She was still in bed, covers pulled up against the cold room. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“I can stay here while you write,” she said. “I’ve been with writers before, you know.”

Kerouac. He’d forgotten about her adventures with the Beat writers. But he didn’t know if he could write with her there. He had to bluff it out. He made coffee and brought her hers in bed, then went to his typewriter. He was in the middle of a story, for Playboy he hoped, so it was relatively easy to start working. Habit took over. She made no noise, and soon he had all but forgotten her. He turned in his chair, an old wooden folding bridge chair. She was lying in his bed, black hair against the white pillow, her hands grasping her shoulders. Dick had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“You’re good, aren’t you?” she said. “I can tell from the way you type.”

Somehow he believed her.