But at that point (and apparently wrestling with her delusion—which was something I’d never known any of my women to do and which, I thought, said something about the quality of her character, though I’m not sure what exactly), she began to ask some questions of her own.
“How come you don’t seem to have the majority of cash I respected?” she said. “How come you don’t habituate in a nice place? How come you don’t have a phone in case Steven Spielberg and Sidney Pollack are in a communicable way? How come your closet is only fulminating with jeans? Also, how come you don’t keep your birds in cages?”
Considering that I wasn’t used to such an interrogation—and that I was obliged to think on my feet—I came up with something that I thought wasn’t bad.
“Honey,” I said, “you’ve entered my life at the worst possible time and while I know that it’s asking a lot, I can only hope you’ll find it within yourself to bear with me. I’m afraid that I may be afflicted with what’s called the ‘J.D. Salinger Syndrome’. It’s a condition of creative paralysis that sometimes develops in artists who have achieved a legendary stature. Owning the prospect of a fame that will survive their demise, they live in terror of losing that prospect by producing work that might be inferior to what they’ve already accomplished. Rather than risk tainting their image, they cease to function and, in the worst cases, to even appear in public where the possibility of a clumsy or mediocre utterance could alter and diminish the way they’re perceived. What happens is that they effectively sacrifice the remainder of their lives to their immortality. I may or may not overcome this disease and I’ll understand completely if its something you want no part of. All I can say is that I’m deliberately staying out of the public eye right now and that I’ve cut myself off from even my closest friends and associates who, meaning well but not understanding, would only make light of my problem and encourage me to work. This unfortunately includes my accountant who happens to be the only person with access to my bank accounts. As for the apartment, it’s my hideout. It’s perfect as a hideout because no one would ever think to look for me in such a crummy place. You’re the only one who knows about it, the only person I’ve trusted enough to bring to it. But again, I’ll understand if this isn’t something you want to involve yourself with because it won’t be a whole lot of fun and I don’t know how it will end.”
And it worked. Roger said nothing, but in addition to breaking out in a really hideous rash as I spoke, her chest swelled noticeably, almost expanding into something like a bosom. She must have felt five feet tall to be deemed worthy of sharing in my time of trial.
Copyright 2008 Robert Levin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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