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Todd admired those who wrote and wrote well. But his admiration was tinged with resentment. Hemingway and his ilk were stingy with their talent and skill. One would think that after having spent so much time studying their work, poring over every phrase, analyzing it word by goddamn word, the ability to write like that would rub off, that the brilliance would be contagious. Didn’t desire count for something? But there were days when he couldn’t find even a grain of genius in his own work.
Nor could anyone else, it seemed.
He balled up the written critique he had received from Professor Hadley and hurled it toward the corner of the room.
Roark walked in just as the paper ball landed on the floor several inches short of the trash can. “Hadley was a hard-ass?”
“Hadley is an asshole.”
“Don’t I know it. He raked me over the coals, too.”
“Seriously?”
“Then left me there to smolder. So, what I thought is, tonight being our night off, we should get drunk.”
“Love to,” Todd said moodily. “Can’t afford it.”
“Neither can I. But being a bartender isn’t without its perks.” With that, Roark brought his hand from behind his back and waggled a bottle of cheap scotch.
“You stole it?”
“This piss won’t be missed.”
“You’re a poet.”
“And didn’t know it. Let’s go.”
Todd rolled off his bunk. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
On the beach, they passed the bottle back and forth between them, toasting the sunset, then the twilight, finally the night sky. They continued to toast the heavens until individual stars began to blur and bob and the universe became a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Starlight, star bright, first star… et cetera. Make a wish, Roark.”
“I wish you’d pass me the whisky.”
Todd handed him the bottle. Roark drank, handed it back, then stretched out on the sand and stacked his hands beneath his head. He began to laugh.
“What?” Todd asked as he used his butt to grind a more comfortable depression into the sand.
“Wishes,” Roark replied. “Reminds me of a genie joke.”
“There are hundreds. Which one?”
“This guy finds a magic lamp, rubs it, genie pops out, grants him three wishes. The guy wishes for a Ferrari, and poof! Next morning there’s a shiny new Ferrari parked in his driveway. He rubs the lamp again, genie pops out, says he’s got two more wishes. The guy wishes for ten million dollars and poof! Next morning ten million dollars is neatly stacked on his nightstand. He rubs the lamp again, genie pops out, says he’s got one last wish. The guy wishes for a penis that would reach the ground, and poof! Next morning he wakes up and his legs are three inches long.”
When their laughter subsided, Roark added, “Moral of the story, be careful what you wish for.”
Todd grumbled, “I wish Hadley’s dick would shrivel to nothing and then drop off. If he’s even got one. Which I doubt.”
“Which manuscript did you send him?”
“The historical.”
“You’ve been working your ass off on that book. What’d he say?”
Todd took another swig from the bottle. “The plot stretches plausibility. My dialogue sucks.”
“Hadley said ‘sucks’?”
