The Burnt Orange Heresy

I had typed eighteen pages for a total of 4,347 words. Now that the concept was firmly established, I could have gone on to write another dozen pages of interpretive commentary, but I forced myself to stop with the negative. Wasn't it about time?' Does every contemporary work of art have to end with an affirmative?' Joyce, with his coda of yesses in Ulysses, Beckett, with the "I will go on" of his trilogy, and those 1,001 phallically erected obelisks and church spires pointing optimistically toward the heavens-for once, just once, let a negative prevail.

My conclusion was not a lucky accident. It was a valid, pertinent statement of Debierue's life and art. Skipping two spaces, I put a "-30-" to the piece.

I was suddenly tired. My neck and shoulders were sore and my back ached. I looked at my watch. Six o'clock. There was a plaintive rumble in my hollow stomach. Except for going into the can three times, I had been at the typewriter for almost six straight hours. I got up, stretched, rubbed the back of my neck, and walked around the coffee table shaking my hands and fingers above my head to get rid of the numb feeling in my arms.

I was tired but I wasn't sleepy. I was exhilarated by completing the article in such a short time. Every part had fallen neatly into place, and I knew that it was a good piece of writing. I had never felt better in my entire life.

I sighed, put the cover on the Hermes, moved the typewriter to the bed, and sat at the desk again to read and correct the article. I righted spelling errors, changed some diction, and penciled in a rough transitional sentence between two disparate paragraphs. It wasn't good enough, and I made a note in the margin to rewrite it. One long convoluted sentence with three semicolons and two colons made me laugh aloud. My mind had really been racing on that one. I reduced it, without any trouble, to four clear, separate sentences-

The phone rang, a loud, jangling ring designed to arouse traveling salesmen who had been drinking too much before going to bed. I almost jumped out of my chair.

Berenice's voice was husky. "I'm hungry."

"Who isn't?"

"I've been sleeping."

"I've been working."

"I've been awake for a half hour, but I'm too lazy to get out of bed. Why don't you come over and get in with me?"

"Jesus, Berenice, I've been working all day and I'm tired as hell."

"If you eat something, you'll feel better."

"All right. Give me an hour, and I'll be over."

"Should I order dinner sent up?"

"No. I prefer to eat something hot, and I've never had a hot meal served in a hotel room. We'll go down to the dining room."

"I'll do my nails."

"In an hour." I racked the phone.

I finished reading and proofing the typescript and put the manuscript in a manila envelope before tucking it safely away in my suitcase. There were only minimal changes to be made in New York. Only two pages would require rewriting. I put the canvas, ashtray palette, and other art materials into the closet. I could paint the picture after dinner.

The tub in the bathroom was huge, the old-fashioned kind with big claw feet clutching metal balls. The hot water came boiling out, and I shaved while the tub filled. The water was much too hot to get into, but I added a little cold water at a time until the temperature dropped to the level I could stand. Sliding down into the steaming, man-sized tub until I was fully submerged, except for my face, I soaked up the heat. The soreness gradually left my back and shoulders. I finished with a cold shower, and by the time I was dressed, I felt as if I had had eight hours' sleep. I called the bar, ordered two Gibsons to be sent to 510, Berenice's room, and studied the road maps I had picked up at the last Standard station.

After dinner, I figured I could paint the picture in an hour or at most an hour and a half. Now that the article was finished there was no point in staying overnight at the hotel. I wasn't sleepy, and with both of us driving we could make it to New York in about thirty hours. The front wheels of the old car started to shimmy if I tried to push it beyond fiftyfive mph, but thirty hours from Valdosta was a fairly accurate estimate. I had forty dollars in my wallet and some loose change. My Standard credit card would get the car to New York, but I decided to save my cash. Berenice had traveler's checks, and she could use some of them to pay the hotel tab. Through the cracked door, I heard the bellman knock on 510 across the way. I waited until Berenice signed the chit and the waiter had caught the down elevator before I crossed the hallway and knocked on her door.