My father. Sometimes I struggle to forget the good times, the times he taught me to box, the encouragement during the years I wrestled, the days he’d have the whole bar laughing, had me laughing so hard that I could hardly breathe. He lived on opposite sides of the spectrum with no in between. Extremely encouraging, extremely happy on one side, miserable and hating the world and everything in it on the other. A good man almost half of the time, though the rest of the time he was so far gone there was never any doubt where he would end up. And I hope he stays there forever.
6
After I had gotten serious about writing the book again, I began punching in at work every day at 6:30 A.M., two hours before my actual shift started. I didn’t know who unlocked the door. I never saw anyone and of course I never asked. All the employee time cards sat within a metal shelf beside the time clock near the entrance door. We were required to keep ours there, removing them only to punch in and out. Each day, I carried mine to my desk and hid it in my drawer, removed the dummy card, and slid it in with the others so there wasn’t a gaping hole where my card was supposed to be. Then I left and walked to the coffeehouse down the street. I’d sit and write for an hour and a half, sometimes two if it was going well. I could usually get down five hundred words that way, or half my daily quota. Then I’d walk back, punch in with the dummy card to keep up appearances, and start the day’s work. I again exchanged cards when I clocked out for lunch. I had been doing it for two and a half months, and no one seemed to notice. In this way, I was being paid to write. I desperately hoped that it wouldn’t be the only way.
7
The worst part about writing back then was when I had finished for the day; the second I stopped working is when I’d start thinking, which opened the gates of insecurity, second-guessing, and a general malaise over the quality of my work. The night is a dreadful time for anxious people, and on the harder nights when I left the café and walked home, I could feel myself coming unglued. When Carolyn was there, I’d usually get better through the simple power of her reassurances; when she wasn’t, I always got worse. I’d wash a Xanax down with a beer or two and many nights I was able to fall asleep, though there were others on which I’d lie awake for hours listening to the trains. Then, in the morning, the anxiety was always gone, as though it had been delivered by the darkness itself, and thus carried away with it.