Yo, Cee. I woke up this morning and ate some barbeque chicken from two nights ago. I made coffee, brushed my teeth and then drank the coffee I just made. I watered my Chia Obama that I found under the seat of a Penske truck I rented two weeks ago. I sopped up the water that ran over the tray on which Mr. Obama sits with two used tube socks. I watched five minutes of Sportscenter. I had another bite of chicken and thought to throw away some pulled pork from last week. I put on a shirt that I got as a gift for getting the New York Times. Hmmm, I think I forgot something I did this morning....oh yeah, between the fistfulls of cold chicken I CALLED ANTONIA LAMB!!!!
I think I was shaking when I pressed "call." The experience was indeed a lot like calling Carol Yake in 9th grade to go to a dance with me, only I wasn't wearing penny loafers and a blue and red striped Gant sweater I bought at Dillards. I did have to psych myself up to complete the task, though. The phone rang three times and I got her answering machine (not voicemail, but answering machine), which relieved me for a split second. I began leaving a jittery and fragmented message when a woman picked up the phone. Then I felt like I did when my dad made me call random people for a health care survey for his dissertation; like I had a hard five seconds to disarm her with my good intentions so she wouldn't hang up and slip away forever. Much like the dance with Carol Yake, there was little to actually be afraid of, except maybe for myself. She was a very gracious, intelligent, generous and spirited soul. I'm not very New Age about how I think of forces in the universe, but if I were, I'd have to say she had a good energy.
The only disappointment was that she was so easygoing and at peace with our project that we don't really have any kind of a wrenching, tragi-romantic conflict to resolve. There's no, the-book-reminds-her-of-her-darker-days-as-an-amphetamine-addicted-writer-living-on-the-Bowery, jive. There's no, you-snarky-little-shits-who-do-you-think-you-are-prying-into-someone-else's-life, biz. She simply would like very much to meet us and talk more about our project. Probably over Toll-House cookies; actually, maybe pot-brownies would be more like it. She said she's an astrologer and a musician in Mendocino, CA. In fact, her third book was finished in Peter Tork's (the Monkee) spare bedroom as he was participating in orgies downstairs. What is the right verb to couple with orgy?? Do you engage in them? Maybe conduct? She seems happy and centered, anyway. It ain't Henry Miller or Charles Bukowski, but it sure made me happy to meet with goodwill.
So that's a little bit awesome.
As for Pleasant Plains Farms, it's significantly less awesome. At least it is in Rowan's mind. Rowan (I should've asked Antonia about the Laugh-In thing. Shit!!) devises a ruse to leave dinner and go outside. Something about leaving her pocketbook in Reshevsky's car. She takes Reshevsky's keys and heads to the birch grove where Cater awaits. It's a lot of buildup for little action, though, as Rowan merely tells Cater that the Tibetan Museum date was postponed until tomorrow, and, as a result so is Cater's transmission of whatever he knows about the events of the past week. What does transpire, however, is a kiss between the two, initiated by MCAT (I'm calling him "the Doctor" from now on.) Rowan of course pulls some coquettish disapproval stuff on him, but you can tell she really wants him. If the way to a man's heart is through his own stomach, the way to a woman's is through another woman. Rowan seems like a really smart, reflective, but naive, volatile and lovesick type. She's the kind you don't want to spurn. The editor even wrote "this girl is a mental defective!!!" in the margin. For the most part this editor has been, fairly passive, sticking to issues of grammar for most of the story, jumping in with some style comments here and there. You know it says something when she/he offers unsolicited opinions on the mental faculties of the characters.
Just prior to the kiss, the Doctor dragged Rowan to the ground to avoid being spotted by the departing Braithwaites. Covered in mud and leaves from that incident, she was then whipped in the face by a branch leaving a mark on her cheek. She has also dropped the keys along the way. So, back from a simple trip to fetch a pocketbook, she looks as if she was kept against her will at Rick James's place for two weeks. She makes up a story about tripping and being too embarrassed to come back inside with the guests still around, but James Kee gives her the twice-over and seems very suspicious.
The next day Kee says to the Count that the keys weren't on the path between the house and the car. I'm guessing this comes back to haunt her.
Reshevsky and Rowan leave together in his car on their way to the Tibetan Museum in Staten Island...
Hoo-ray for finding Antonia!!!
Your turn, Cee.
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