four

Weymouth looked down at me. “We hear you’re looking to rent a place over in the Northeast,” he said, “in the wealthiest part of town.” I nodded. “Yeah, it’s true. And that would be something, right? Me in the wealthy quadrant of the city.”

A Weymouth smile. “Every once in a while the Universe likes to horse around.”

“Speaking of horsing around,” Connie said, “what’s with no new book as long as I can remember? You were on a roll there for a while.” I don’t know why, but I didn’t wonder why I wasn’t wondering how she would know any of that. I’d never met or even seen these folks before, and even here, across and slightly above me, there was something not quite focused with their faces. “I guess it’s an inspiration thing,” I say, “or not having much.”

“We may be able to help with that,” said Weymouth, and all of a sudden I’m sitting on a bench in the shade watching a dragonfly hover over five inches of wetland water. Things are teeming. Bright green reeds. A salad of reeds. A childhood flash – Howard Johnson’s 28 flavors. A peanut gallery of 10,000 geese and one lone woodpecker, up a high branch, sitting meditation. Not a peck, peck, peck in sight. After a while the bird floats down and lights on the tip of the bench. If I could tell you all about the wonder of our conversation I would. Surely (dear subscriber) there must be a mirror in your house.

“You went somewhere,” Connie said, snapping me out of my reverie. “Nevermind. Weymouth and I were up late, late last night throwing around some thoughts on this “Inspiration” (Connie with finger quotes in the air) problem. Some kickstarts for your authorly inertia.” She leaned in a bit. “Want to hear some?”

Sometimes yes and no are the same answer. But not every time. “Sure,” I say.