Instead of doing any of those things, I called my wife. We’d opted for her to stay home for this particular reading. It made sense at the time—it was a weeknight, she was very pregnant, and our daughter Caroline was still just a baby. “Is it over already?” she asked. Her voice was sweet but concerned. “How’d it go?”
“No one’s here,” I said.
“No one. I don’t know what I should do.”
She didn’t know what I should do either, but she was pretty sure I should leave. My mother would have told me to be tough. My editor probably would have told me that I had an obligation. Burgess Meredith from Rockys 1 through 3 would have told me to keep my head up and fight through it for Christ’s sake. But she was my wife and she knew me well enough to know that I was on the verge of panicking. It was too late to leave though. It was 7:01 pm, and the guy with the mustache was waving at me. I told my wife I’d call her back when it was over.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Posted by John at 8:33 PM