LETTERS 

The writer was surprised to run into his old friend Michael in a cafe he frequented along the broad thoroughfare known as Shattuck Avenue. The writer was having his usual plate of lasagna and garlic bread with a glass of beer when he spotted the old friend in a corner, against the window, writing furiously in a notebook. It was, after all, a city of writers. And if a person wasn't writing they were a client of one of several therapists and if they weren't a client they were a therapist and many times the clients became therapists and the therapists became clients. Michael was in the corner with his elbow propped up on the table and one hand lazily rubbing his cheek. It was late afternoon and the people began coming home from work, catching the afternoon bus. There was always the crazy woman condemning the students, telling them that they were evil. Always the poor huddled behind their packages.

The writer looked for a long time at his friend. The last time he had seen him was during the anti-war days. Michael had decided to avoid the draft by going up into the mountains and hiding out. The writer had seen him several days before the event was to take place. He was, of course, sympathetic and gave Michael several books to take with him. One was a treatise on anarchism by Prince Kropotkin and the other was Civil Disobedience by Henry David Thoreau. 'These will entertain you. You will understand them completely,' he told him.

Frankly, the writer had forgotten about him in the intervening years. The war ended, the south fell, the nation plunged into an unfathomable pessimism, an abyss that had carried the writer far out into the periphery of things. He had already collected valuable material for his future endeavors.

He had felt a little jolt when he had spotted him. There was a kind of reticence to him as if going up to him would open a can of worms he didn't want to open. There was always the question of his own reappraisal of those years. But, then, didn't he feel strong now? Didn't he believe in himself and what he was doing? Certainly. So, he got up off the chair and moved over to the table.

'Well, you made it out of the woods ok,' the writer said.

Michael looked up. He had the expression of enormous sadness. It was not a good expression in a young man but there it was. Then an expression of astonishment. The writer noticed little flecks of gray in his hair.

'What? You're still around this place?'

The writer laughed and sat down at the table. 'I've thought about you over the years.' He was lying but it was kind lie, a necessary lie he felt.

Michael grunted a little and then they told each other what they were doing in the world these days. They reminsced until nothing more could be dredged up of those they knew and the experiences they had shared.

'So, when you left here that Saturday, tell me, what happened?'

Michael waved the question off as if he didn't want to talk about the past. Then he uprighted himself in his chair. 'I went into the mountains and stayed with a group of people.'

'Ah, I want to hear this story.' And the writer settled back in his chair waiting for the tale to be told.

David Eide
January 11, 2000
Back to Jobs page
Back to Letters
Back to Laughing Sun
Back to Oasis