Chapter 72

There’s a letter from Frank on the kitchen counter when we get home. The first thing I notice are all the exclamation points:

Sam,

You hit the fucking nail on the head the other week! People are going to the dogs grammatically. I had lunch with an old friend of mine earlier—textbook publisher. I pitched an idea over dessert. You’re going to write grammar books, Sam—rules for texting, blogging, etc! Sort of a Dr. Seuss kind of thing. We’ll find a cartoonist. You write some pithy rules, he illustrates. Get ready to boogie, Sam! We’re fucking on our way!

Frank

It’s hard to know if he’s kidding or not. I call his office and he says, “Just write what you said on air, Sam. Give’m hell, but do it in a Seuss kind of way. Get my drift?”

The next morning, I’m in the basement. My laptop is open on a rusty TV table. I’ve even taken a hit of oxygen for a little pick-me-up. Behind the furnace, there’s a box filled with Judy’s old Dr. Seuss books: The Lorax, Horton, Uncle Terwilliger. I drag them out, dust them off. In the words of Seuss, Frank wants me to plant a truffula.

I start reading this one book where it says you can swallow what’s solid, but you have to spit out air. I yell upstairs to Judy, “Come down here, sweetheart. Daddy has a question.”

She thumps down in a baggy tracksuit. “What is it, Daddy?” she says.

“You used to love this stuff. What does ‘swallow what’s solid and spit out air’ mean?”

“Don’t waste time on things that don’t matter.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Thanks. I’ll call if I need you again.”

“No problem,” she says, running back upstairs.

I pull out “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” It makes more sense than “Green Eggs and Ham.” Most of them are crazy analogies, like a man who watches the lazy town bee, another who crosses t’s. Just when I think I’ve got one character figured out, he introduces another and I’m back to square one. I finally type the first thing that comes into my head. Nothing looks or sounds right. When I was copywriting, if it didn’t come naturally, I’d write a bunch of nonsense down. Now I can’t even write nonsense. I walk around, banging my head against one of the pipes. Then I see a piece of paper sticking out of “Hop on Pop.” It must be something Judy wrote back in public school:

My daddy’s tall

My mommy’s small

I don’t have a sister

Or a brother at all!

I’m back at the typewriter: Some things are easy, some things are hard. Don’t make them harder by . . . fuck. . . . by . . . I lie down on Muller’s cot and turn off the light. Then I put on his earphones. It helps a bit and I start rhyming again: Let’s begin with a noun and work our way up. A noun’s just—something lands on top of me. “Dammit, Muller,” I say. “Get off of me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Why’s the light off?”

“Because I’m trying to concentrate. What are you doing?”

“Changing my socks.”

“Well, get off me.”

“Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Fine. Let’s go.” I push Muller upstairs. Everything’s out on the table. The roast sits there in a cranberry glaze, with new potatoes and green beans.

“How’s it going?” Mary says.

“It’s a bitch.”

“Did you read my Dr. Seuss books, Daddy?” Judy says.

“Yes, I did, sweetheart.”

“They’re good, aren’t they?”

“He certainly has his own style.”

“Are you going to have creatures?”

“It’s a grammar book.”

“How about a rhyming fish?” Muller says.

“Or a bird that spells,” Judy says.

Look, for chrissake, let’s not Hop on Pop.