Waiting for Something
By Harry Buschman
The urge to write was like an itch in the fingers.
Long before my mind was ready, my fingers would drum on the keys like eager
schoolboys. Then came the
business of learning how to write and that took all the joy out of wanting to
write.
But it stood there, this old seventy-five pound
L.C. Smith typewriter that my
Grandfather gave me. The American Book Company gave it to him when he
retired. It sat on a sturdy mahogany table in my bedroom .... just sat there
staring at me as if to say .... "C'mon hotshot, you wanted to write didn't
you? C'mon, make me write, I dare you!"
It was very intimidating. I typed out the names
and addresses of everyone I
knew and I typed my last will and testament. I was only fourteen and the names
and addresses of the people I knew only filled half a page and my estate consisted
of a red Columbia bicycle with a bent fork, and the L.C. Smith typewriter.
But the urge to write was an itch that defied scratching. To be able to string words together; to say something with them that would be blindingly brilliant and stand the test of time. I bought a used Webster unabridged dictionary almost as heavy as the L.C. Smith. I bought a Thesaurus, a Bartleby's, and a cast-off encyclopedia. The sum of the world's knowledge, everything man had discovered through the ages now shared space on the sturdy table with the L.C. Smith. There was room for nothing else. As the dancer says in "Gypsy" .... "all I need now is the girl."
The girl in this case was Erato. That sweet Grecian Goddess of the written word. She is disinclined to waste her time with teenagers, particularly the loudmouthed kind with nothing to say. Only two years into my teens, I had very little to say, and when I tried to say it, my voice often slipped upwards into the alto range. Erato would take one look at me, gather her robes about her and leave by the back door.
Oh yes! -- I did write short stories in which the words were ineptly woven like strings of mis-matched beads. All they had in common was the string they were strung on. I remember one, "Julian," it was one of those "Waiting for Lefty" things, or maybe "Waiting for Godot" perhaps. Although now that I think back, it could well have been modeled on "The Iceman Cometh." I'm sure we've all been through those 'waiting' stories .... a crowd of losers in a bar, all waiting, hoping that something's coming, something good. There were no women in it, what did I know about women? I don't think "Julian" had an ending either -- what did I know about endings? I was still wet behind the ears from the beginning. For all I know the cast is still there, waiting, waiting for the iceman, or Godot, or Lefty.
In my case the waiting ended abruptly on the
Labor Day weekend of 1939. Two
strangely disparate things happened that weekend. A camp counselor and I took
twenty children to see the opening of "The Wizard of Oz" in Pittsfield,
Massachusetts, and while we were there, the wicked witch of the west marched
into Poland. It was the kind of disparity that is forever etched in my mind
with acid. For five years I witnessed the fear, the blood, the promises and
the eventual understanding of how fragile and fleeting life can be.
Erato would have me then. "You know enough
now, get to it . . . pick up my
torch, deliver me from the black hole of Joyce and the macho strut of Hemingway."
I hedged ....
"I'm sorry, Erato, forgive me, I'm married now, I've got a house to pay for -- children to raise. Show me how I may write my way to financial security and I will gladly carry your torch for you." She snatched it away -- a most demanding lady. It's all or nothing with Erato, she is tougher on dilettantes than teenagers.
But oh! .... I wrote. Whenever I could I wrote.
The books had served me well
and the old L.C. Smith, if I needed it, was always there. But Erato? She was
not there, and even with the best of intentions I could never get very far without
her. The chef was in the kitchen and the waiter tended the tables. Once in a
while I'd read something by someone who must have given himself to her heart
and soul. How I envied them! What did they have that I didn't have? I looked
about me. What did I have that they didn't have?
Well, I've had my eighteen holes of living, haven't I? I'm sitting here in the
clubhouse with a few of my oldest and dearest friends. So far as I can tell
"Lefty," "Godot" and the "Iceman" have still not
checked in. But here, under this darkling sky we'll wait a moment longer. Perhaps
Erato will join us for a beer.
© Harry Buschman 1997
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