by Brian Costello

After donating plasma and reading large chunks from “The Kerouac Reader,” struck more by the sad poverty in the excerpts than the usually inspiring sweaty bebop kicks[1], Ronnie collected his money and drove to a friend of a friend of an acquaintance, some girl who had a computer and printer willing to let Ronnie print out all 434 pages of his recently completed masterwork, “The Big Blast for Youth.”

Her name was Claire. She lived in The Duck Pond, a relatively upscale neighborhood of professors and students no longer or never interested in the party scenes closer to the campus. The computer and printer were in her feng-shuied living room. Claire was this overweight gothy broad (Yes, Ronnie thought it was hilarious to say “broad.”) with the requisite fixations on Morrissey and black clothing.

Earlier in the day, Ronnie proofread the novel to the best of his abilities, and reread it from beginning to end to see if any revisions were needed. None were needed. It was: A Masterpiece.

“Do you want anything to drink?” the hostess with the printer asked.

Ronnie stared at the gray monitor screen scrolling from page to page, making one last dummy check before hitting the print button.

“What do you have?”

“Beer. Wine.”

“Wine.” Ronnie had learned that having a drink or two after donating plasma was the equivalent of three or four drinks.

“What kind?”

“Whatever.”

She returned with two green wine glasses half-filled with Chardonnay (Ronnie guessed), set his next to the keyboard. “You ever had a spritzer?”

“No.”

“It’s wine and sprite.”

With the left hand, Ronnie lifted the glass. With the right hand, he clicked the “print” button with the mouse. The printer screeched, then whirred. The glasses clinked. “Cheers.” Claire made a big production of sniffing the wine before sipping it, sounding like someone trying to breathe with a bad cold.

Due to losing plasma and not eating, the wine kicked in immediately. While the manuscript printed, one slow page at a time, Ronnie took in the house. Claire had changed. Still fat, but less gothy. He decided Claire was one of those girls who act thirty the moment she obtains a driver’s license. That thirtiness only grows worse with each new rite of passage into adulthood. Look at her. One month left in college, dressing like Ronnie’s simpleminded conceptions of a thirty-year-old. Like the business casual bitches from the restaurants I worked back home: water with lemon, Caesar salad, light dressing would be fabulous. One of those countless Orlando twats who overuse the word “fabulous,” complete with haughty Newport/Hamptons inflection. As if breaking into the higher reaches of a five-figure income from real estate commissions gives you the right to behave like you’ve made it into the echelons of The Really Rich.

The interior decoration of the house was straight out of an interior decorating magazine. Color-coordinated walls to match the furniture, match the plates, match the curtains, match the clothes. Not green: Avocado. Not purple: Plum. However, Ronnie had to admit that it was a peaceful older house with venerable hardwood floors, the kind of Gainesville house he would like to live once he managed to escape the trailer. He barely recalled the other time he was here, loaded on roofies after The Laraflynnboyles played some crazy houseparty in the Student Ghetto ending in Ronnie gleefully tackled by all the partygoers as they stole the mic and screamed what they thought were the lyrics.

“What’s your book about?” Claire asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ronnie said, not taking his eyes off the gray screen.

She leaned closer, inches from his right side. She smelled like the perfume counter at the mall. “That’s not a very good answer.”

“I know,” Ronnie laughed. When he was sober, he actually liked Claire. “It’s about Orlando, and living there, and everything that happened.”

“Oh. Can I read it?”

“Not right now.”

The phone rang. “Oh hi! Ronnie Altamonte is over here. Yeah! He’s printing out his book! Yeah, he wrote a book! Can you believe it? Me neither!”

Ronnie wished the book would print already, wished he could throw it in the mailbox, ready to flee Florida for the small press that would get his work out there. This notoriety, its final residue manifested in the first and last namedrop, was tiresome, because really now, he was less than nothing. A bum with writer’s block. Living in a double-wide trailer, knowing little except not to trust any social acquaintance who spoke of him by his first and last name. “Okay! Hmmm, bye-bye.”

“So that was Diana,” Claire said. “She says ‘Hi.’” Diana went to UCF with Ronnie. She sang in some twee alternative band having a one-word name like “Break” or “Collapse” or “Banish.” Ronnie honestly couldn’t remember. He just smiled. The printer was on page 183.

“Where are you sending the book?” Claire asked, back at his right side with her mall perfume counter aroma.

“A small press in the Midwest.”

“Why don’t you put it out with Random House or something?”

Because they’re not ready for what I gotta lay on society! In Ronnie’s head, there lived a burnout hippie, and while it was just a comic invention, at least once a year, their thoughts coincided. This was that time for 1996. “I like this press better,” was all he felt like saying to her.

“That’s cool. More spritzer?”

“OK.’

They drank the spritzers. They were, um, spritzy. The printer continued from one page to the next. She pulled up a chair next to Ronnie and grabbed the stacks of pages from the printer. Ronnie grabbed her fat arm. The hostess giggled. Coquettishly. She thought Ronnie was flirting. She started reading out loud from the manuscript. Ronnie yanked it out of her hands, yelling “No!” much louder than he intended. “Jesus! Just step the fuck off, bitch!” As he pulled the pages away, he knocked over his wineglass. It shattered on the hardwood floor, wine spraying across the room.

There were a few seconds of silence. The coquettish giggling stopped. The smile disappeared. “I’m…sorry, Ronnie.” Claire said, stepping back from the computer, from the mess. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“No. I know.” Ronnie held out the stack. “You want to read this? Here. Sorry. I was just…nervous, but I shouldn’t be.”

“No. That’s ok.” She left the bedroom. It looked like her shoulders were shaking from crying, but Ronnie couldn’t think about that.

The print job was finished when Ronnie wiped up the last of the wine, throwing the green shards and spritzered paper towels into the garbage in the kitchen. The hostess watched CNN in the living room.

Ronnie stood in the hallway by the front door, looking over at Claire’s sobbing back. “Thanks for letting me use your printer,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said, devoid of feeling, not turning away from the TV.

“I’m sorry,” Ronnie said.

“You can show yourself out,” the hostess said.

Ronnie knew what he did, but didn’t know what to say about it, so he just left. He never saw Claire again. Sobering on the drive home, he knew she wasn’t as bad as he was thinking and acting.

______________________________

[1] He first read “On the Road” at age 17, checked out of the Seminole County Library’s Wekiva Branch, and, believe it or not, the only kid in his high school who knew who Kerouac was beyond Billy Joel’s namedrop in the noun-heavy 1989 hit, “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” Kerouac wrote jazz, but like jazz, blues weaved in and out of every line. Ronnie first realized this while reading him in the plasma center, reclined in those gray chairs, whining 1990’s videos blaring over the din or poverty. With no money, no options, and nothing going as planned, there is a real freedom, and each day holds its own adventures, unencumbered by the safety of careers, homeownership, stability. For better or worse, this was far more edifying than the so-so of constant routine. It was Kerouac who expanded, broadened, and illuminated the possibilities of what life could be for Ronnie. Only now, the dark side of this, of beat poverty and suffering, wasn’t entirely lost on him.

“An Unfortunate Incident Involving Spritzers, Manuscripts, and Post-Goth Hostesses” by Brian Costello is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.