For the Soul of Edward Dean Hazlitt
By Harry Buschman
My days seem endless, yet the years left to me fly by with ever increasing speed and I sense an impatience in me that I find hard to control. I am reminded of the old theory which permits me to halve the distance to my goal ad infinitum. I practiced it when I was a kid. Those were the days, weren’t they -- almost but not quite? To never get to the math exam, to the dentist -- to hold off the inevitable forever!
It seems to me my vision has tunneled and I am blind to the beauties that grow by the side of the road. I’m sure it’s a mental condition, not a physical one. As I look back on the closing circle of my years, I find my capacity for accepting anything new has dwindled to the vanishing point -- halving itself day by day so to speak. I weigh the events of today’s world on the skimpy scale of my past experience, and like almost every old man I know, I am convinced that life is not as good and brave and honorable as it used to be. There is no Churchill, no Roosevelt, no Einstein. I pick these heroes out of the rag bag of my past, (leaving Hitler and Jack the Ripper inside of course) and I persuade myself that life is going downhill .... I would give anything to start over!
My writing goes slowly. It is labored and ponderous
now. It doesn't spill
spontaneously from the tip of the pen as it used to, and whatever talent I still
retain is a tinted likeness of what it used to be. I resurrect familiar characters
rather than create new ones, and it’s almost beyond the limit of my concentration
to motivate them and guide them through the tangled web of plot. I lose interest
in them quickly through no fault of their own. Writer’s block has become
a chronic disease, and it’s a rare day when I can say anything meaningful.
I would sell my soul to write again!
I think a long life might work for some, but
few people in the arts have been
productive in the twilight of their years. Old age wouldn’t have worked
for
Mozart or Mendelssohn -- they lived a lifetime in thirty odd years. What would
thirty more have given them? Would they have reached greater heights? I doubt
it. Is it possible they knew, from the beginning, they had to get it all done
in their first thirty years? Did they hear a voice saying, “Get cracking
Wolfgang, move it Felix, you can’t halve the distance forever -- you haven’t
got forever.”
For the life of me, I can’t think of another
reason how Wolfgang and Felix,
yes, and Edward Dean Hazlitt got so much done in so little time. It seems to
me that’s the way it should be .... yet life is so sweet, success so gratifying
that I am seduced and inclined to hang around as long as I can. Even now it’s
hard to let go, even when I’m just a shell of myself. I feel .... something
may yet happen to bring it all back again. There are miracles every day, are
there not? When you least expect it, something wonderful may happen.
To her credit my wife gave up on me long ago.
Took off like a shot when it
became evident that the force was no longer with me. She enjoyed herself while
it lasted though, receptions, cocktail parties, television interviews .... “How
does it feel to be the wife of a Pulitzer Prize author, Ms. Hazlitt?” “Do
you like the travel, the hotel life, the three page spread in Time .... it must
be so exciting.” Then suddenly we were both on the fat side of forty and
the sand ran out of the glass. She stuck it out for three years waiting for
me to emerge from my funk. Then .... well I don’t blame her, Ed Hazlitt
was moribund -- stick a fork in him, he’s done. Got a card from her just
a few weeks ago. From Cannes. “How’ya doing, Eddie?” it said.
A rhetorical question I am sure -- one she knew the answer to without asking.
It was signed with her maiden name.
How long have I sat here? In this room? At
this typewriter? With chapter one
still unfinished and gathering dust on the table beside me, as stale as last
week’s newspaper. Hanging on to life like a barnacle. I can recall a time
not so very long ago as I walked the streets I would feel the electric hand
of inspiration running up and down my spine! I would jump several inches as
though I’d been goosed. I would shout and shiver in my bones like a man
possessed. Women would stare at me, back away clutching their purses and looking
about them in dismay. Now there is no one to pause as they pass my house and
say .... “This is where Hazlitt lives! A man who’s seen it all, a
man to stop and listen to! Let us go in, sit at his feet and hang on his every
word.” No! They will say, “Somebody clear this rubbish out of here,
how can we make any progress with this old fart standing in the way!”
While in this frame of mind, I put on my old
gray jacket with the corduroy
patches on the elbows and went out this afternoon. Took a long walk. The full
length of Bleeker Street all the way down to Barrow. On the corner was a new
natural food store. They spring up like dandelions in the Village. As I stood
in front of the homey medicines and herbal elixirs, I was ready to try any and
all of them if they promised to cure my creative sterility. There was chamomile
and devil’s claw, they were anti rheumatics -- of no use to me. There was
fever few for migraine and garlic for cholesterol. I shook my head. My problems
were rooted elsewhere, even ginseng was not for me. “Hmmm, Saint John’s
Wort. Good for depression! Well now, that’s more like it,” I thought.
“I’ve got depression coming out of my ears.”
“You’ve got to be Edward Dean Hazlitt!
I’d know those searching eyes anywhere!” A rather round woman of uncertain
age was standing behind me with
both hands to her cheeks, a gray alligator bag, slung from one chubby arm swung
wildly and scattered a display of vitamin bottles. They skittered noisily down
the aisle and the other customers intent in their search for homeopathic remedies
raised their eyes and stared at us.
A voice came from the ceiling. “Roosevelt, we have a spill in aisle three.” The woman picked her way carefully across the aisle and stood in front of me. “Oh, dear me -- look what I’ve done! But I couldn’t help it, could I?” Her brows knitted. “You are Edward Dean Hazlitt aren’t you? .... I mean, I’d be the biggest fool if you’re not.”
I thought it best to acknowledge it with a nod, then make a hasty retreat. It wasn’t the only nature food store in the neighborhood. “Yes Ma’am, Ed Hazlitt -- the Edward Dean is for book covers.”
“Thank Heaven, Mr. Hazlitt. I must confess
I thought you were dead.” Her
eyes drifted ceilingward and she brought her hands together in a prayerful
gesture. “You were my favorite, Mr. Hazlitt. Let me see .... ‘The
Lady of Acorn Ridge’ and, what was that other one again, ‘Shoes of
Iron’ -- that’s my favorite I think. When Father Anselmo finds the
letter from -- who was it again ...”
She had it all wrong .... but I made no move to correct her. Father Anselmo was in ‘The Turquoise Buddha.’ She went on and on. Meanwhile, Roosevelt arrived to pick up the vitamin bottles, the woman seemed to be oblivious of everything but me.
Then she became aware of Roosevelt squatting beside her filling a basket with vitamin bottles; she sobered up a bit and pouted as she peered over her glasses at me .... “Why aren’t you writing any more?” She must have read my thoughts, because she stopped her pouting and introduced herself, “Lordy, where are my manners?” Her hands fluttered up to her face again and she said, “I’m Margaret Braintree.” She extended her hand as though she wished me to kiss it. I took it and shook it instead. The name rang a bell -- a small bell, more of a tinkle than a bell. “I must be getting senile ma’am -- you said your name is Braintree, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Hazlitt. Braintree. It’s
my maiden name. My husband used it too,
bless his black heart,” She sniffed disdainfully. “The little bastard
ran out on me after the sixtieth book. “Charles and Margaret Braintree
-- don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the Braintrees?”
It came in a rush! The mystery twins! Back in the thirties .... or was it the twenties. “Mystery of the Month.” For four or five years, regular as the clock they cranked out a 250 page mystery every month. It always amazed me that no matter how involved the mystery was, it would be solved in 250 pages, give or take maybe five. I suddenly realized I was still shaking her hand as though it was a well pump that had gone dry .... “Margaret Braintree! I haven’t been myself, really I should have remembered you instantly .... let’s see .... “The Pool Table Murders,” The .... The .... “The Case of the Heebie Jeebies.” A moist and happy light came into her eyes. They welled up to overflowing.
She fished in her alligator bag for a kleenex, and not finding one, rubbed her nose on the back of her white glove. “Heebie Jeebies, yes -- it was “The Heebie Jeebie Affair” by the way, and “The Pool Shark Murders” -- it doesn’t matter, you remembered, just as I remembered “The Lady of Acorn Bridge.”
“Ridge, Ms. Braintree.”
“Whatever, Mr. Hazlitt. The important
thing is we remembered each other. Do
you realize what a blessing that is to has-beens?” I handed her my handkerchief,
thankful that I had brought a recently laundered one with me. She drew herself
up to her full height, which brought her head up to the level of the St. John’s
Wort display shelf and cleared her nose in my handkerchief. Then she said in
a plaintive voice, “Have you had lunch, Mr. Hazlitt?”
I quickly consulted my watch, pretending I had pressing engagements elsewhere, but when I saw her lips quiver, I shrugged and said, “Ms. Braintree I’d be delighted to have lunch, I have no appointments until this evening.” I didn’t want this to drag on too long -- and I really didn’t feel like treating her to dinner.
I hadn’t had a lady on my arm in years
especially one as animated as Margaret
Braintree. She skipped along at my side taking two steps to my one and chattered
incessantly. “Really, Mr. Hazlitt, I feel fate has stepped in to bring
us together this afternoon -- two over the hill Village writers. The things
we’ve seen -- the ups and downs.”
“Where are we going Ms. Braintree?”
We were making good time up Bleeker
Street but I had no idea where we were headed.
“Oh, I thought it was all decided.”
She somehow arrested her forward motion
but kept her feet moving. I have seen joggers do that while waiting for the
light to change, but to my knowledge I’ve never seen an elderly woman marking
time in the middle of the street. “You don’t mind The Firehouse, do
you?”
“No, of course not,” I sighed. It
was the place Poe hung out when he lived
in the Village. It was more expensive than I liked, after all, I had just gone
out for a walk and a look see at the natural food store. Lunch at The Firehouse
begins at somewhere around nine A.M. and lingers ‘til six in the evening.
I hoped Ms. Braintree was not intending to settle down there for the afternoon.
She marched in ahead of me, peeled off her
gloves and suddenly appeared to
grow taller. Her voice took on an authoritative tone .... “Louis! Good
to see
you again. The table in the corner if you please.” She turned slowly and
placed her hand on my shoulder. “I’d like you to meet Louis, Mr. Hazlitt
-- isn’t he distinguished? A gentleman who just happens to be a waiter.”
“Good to meet you, Louis.”
She took her hand away, lowered her voice and
turned back to Louis in
confidence, “You must remember Edward Dean Hazlitt, Louis -- a romance
writer of rare sensitivity and taste. Forgotten and out of fashion I’m
afraid, much
like Margaret Braintree.” We made our way to the corner table, and before
I
could think of it, Louis took her coat and draped it carefully over his arm.
“Please Louis, as quickly as you can -- bourbon -- double, and I needn’t
remind you to keep them coming, do I?” She turned and smiled sweetly at
me. “Please sit, Mr. Hazlitt. One waiter is enough -- you look like a double
Beefeater Martini with a twist, am I right?”
Heading off Louis, I held the chair for her
and she sat down with an air of
finality. She looked as though she might spend the day. The change in her was
remarkable, it was as though we had left little Margaret Braintree outside in
the street and someone -- someone more in command of things and in the full
flush of success had asked me to lunch.
“There’s something about The Firehouse,”
she leaned back comfortably and
said. “It isn’t just Edgar Allan Poe -- Do you know, Mr. Hazlitt,
Henry James sat in the very chair you’re sitting in? Theodore Dreiser used
to sit over there by the kitchen door. Yes, and Mark Twain often spat in that
brass cuspidor over there at the corner of the bar.”
“I had no idea, Ms. Braintree.”
Our drinks arrived and I sipped mine carefully, the first sip of a double Beefeater must be taken slowly, it is always a powerful experience. Ms. Braintree, on the other hand held her Bourbon up to the light of the wrought iron chandelier, smiled appreciatively and tossed it down.
“Drinking together is a sign of trust, Mr. Hazlitt -- I think I’ll call you Edward now?” Another bourbon arrived for Ms. Braintree, I had yet to take the second sip of my Martini. “Invigorating. For a person with a thirst like mine -- nothing puts out the fire like 85 proof Kentucky Bourbon.” She upended the glass, smacked her lips and put it down with a flourish.
“I’m not much of a drinker, Ms ....”
“Margaret.”
“.... Margaret -- I’m not very hungry either. I think I’ll just have a sandwich.” Louis appeared out of nowhere and I ordered pastrami on rye -- I figured it might be big enough so that I could skip dinner. He looked questioningly at Ms. Braintree.
“ .... and madam?”
“Just another bourbon, Louis. I’m working this afternoon.” She said this while keeping her eyes on me. “I seem to remember a Mrs. Hazlitt.”
“She’s in Cannes, Margaret -- we’re living apart .... and your husband.”
“The wretch is in Hollywood -- doing dialogue for Warner Brothers.”
It was an uncomfortable moment, a moment of
failure for the two of us and we
avoided eye contact until she became animated again. “Do you still write,
Edward?”
“I try, but it’s like pulling teeth -- you know? I know all the rules, the forms -- all the do’s and don’ts. But nothing comes. Remember the play “I Am A Camera”? Well, I am a typewriter.”
“That’s no good Edward, it’s
degrading. It makes a eunuch of you. I had the
same problem until I began eating here at the Firehouse.”
“You mean the ghosts of James and Twain?”
“No. Nothing of the sort. I met Johnny Monday”
“Who’s he?” My sandwich arrived
along with another Bourbon for Margaret.
This time she rolled her Bourbon glass between her thumb and forefinger, then
took a tiny sip.
“Monday publications. Have you ever done, “As told to’s?”
“Excuse me?”
“They’re phony auto-biographies.
Illiterate politicians, Basketball players, actresses. They publish their auto-biography,
and on the cover it says,” she
drew a picture of a book in the air, “My Life as a Daredevil” by Evel
Knievel, with Ginger Lovechild. That’s me, Ginger Lovechild. Monday publishes
these books by the dozen.”
“Like a collaborator .... not bad. Get to meet interesting people?”
“That’s the best part,” Margaret
smiled, “you don’t have to meet the idiots
at all! Would you want to collaborate on a book with Evel Knievel? ‘Course
you wouldn’t! Monday gives me voice tapes and I listen to the dimwits
romanticize about the most important events in their lives .... like, for instance
the day they first learned to tie their shoes.” She reached across the
table and tapped her knuckles on the back of my hand. “It’s a writer’s
Social Security, Edward. People pay to read this stuff -- pick a name -- be
an -- ‘as told to’.”
“It’s tempting Margaret, but I don’t know. What would Poe say?”
“You’re going to starve to death
worrying about what Poe would say. Look --
Edward .... none of us is pure, each of us carries a secret deep within as dark
as the bottom of a swamp.” She melted a bit and gave me the sweet old lady
smile she used in the natural food store. “I’ve got more ‘as
told to’s’ than I can handle. Edward.” She began counting on
her fingers, “there’s Ngumbo Jumbo the basketball player, Trudy Goodshoes,
Alison Shields ....”
I waved at Louis and made a writing motion
with my hands. $38.75! Holy smokes -- I never spend more than three bucks for
a meal. I paid by card and tipped Louis six dollars. “I must be going,
Margaret. Lots of luck with your ‘as
told to’s, but it really isn’t for me.”
She looked as though she might cry. “Scruples!
Oh, Edward -- must you? Look
at us, we have nothing. No Social Security, no pension -- if we are to live
in this world we must make our way. He’ll be here any minute.”
Who? Johnny Monday?”
“Yes. He’ll have something for you
I’m sure.” She took my hand and held it
hard. “He told me only last week he’s publishing a new cook book --
‘Living
Low-Fat and Loving It’ -- he needs somebody to pad out the recipes. It
would
be just right for you Edward.”
I looked down at her. She was still holding her Bourbon -- her face was creased with lines more finely etched than a steel engraving, her eyes were wet with tears that I’m sure she shed more for herself than me. A faint aroma rose from her, a blend of Bourbon and Lily of the Valley. Her battleship gray hair, heavily lacquered and impervious to wind and rain reflected the candle lights of the wrought iron chandelier. She was ashamed of herself I’m sure, and she couldn’t hold my gaze for more than a second. Her eyes drifted around the room, lingering momentarily on the unseen ghosts of Dreiser, Poe and Twain.
A wave of righteousness seemed to flow over
me and I knew there was enough
strength left in me to close the book -- that the game was not worth the playing.
“You reach a time, Margaret -- a time and an ending. You can narrow the
distance by half just so long. Finally there is no knife so sharp that it can
come between you and the end.”
©Harry Buschman 2001
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