Excerpt from NO HARD FEELINGS

by David Arthur Walters

Paul Bowman is the sort of person who honors his word regardless of when and where given—in this case, the night before, in a drunken stupor at the Peculier Pub in Greenwich Village. Despite his sober reservations about John Wilson Senior's drunken offer to read his manuscripts and to sponsor him if he liked what he had read, Paul, suffering from a fierce hangover, dutifully walked over as promised to the post office the next morning with his manuscripts sealed in an envelope neatly addressed to Senior at his Pittsburg steel company.

While waiting in line to buy stamps, he uneasily reflected on the conversation he'd had at the pub with Senior's son, Junior, after Senior had headed toward the restroom—it was difficult to carry on an extended conversation with anyone except Senior when Senior was around buying rounds, as he tended to dominate all conversations at once.

While Senior was relieving himself outside of earshot, Junior had introduced himself to Paul. He seemed to be an intelligent, sensitive young man. Paul had already gotten the impression from the bar chatter that he was a browbeaten son, one who knows better than to interrupt or to disagree with his father over matters of peripheral interest.

Junior related that he was a graduate student and was working as a psychiatric orderly at Bellevue.

Paul silently wondered how could Junior’s father could be as rich and powerful as he appeared to be if Junior had to work, what with Senior’s expensive suits and jewelry and wallet stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, not to mention the gold and platinum credit cards.

Junior, as if he had read his thoughts, explained that Senior was a self-made man who did not get much of a formal education, yet he had still managed to pull himself up by his bootstraps and become a powerful Pennsylvania industrialist, so he wanted his son to get a taste of working at the bottom of society.

“You know, dad does not care for fancy talk. He may not appreciate the writings you promised to send him if they are full of fancy talk.

"He might like my style," Paul responded confidently. “I try not to use too many syllables. I got my education in the school of hard knocks, in the tradition of America's greatest writers. And I think most people will love my work if they get a chance to read it. The articles I'm sending along to your father are about dance performances...."

"Dance performances? That doesn't sound like hard knocks," Junior remarked.

"It can be a tough life, you know—poverty, hard work, smoking and drinking too—though not as rude as the circus life I was interested in as kid because some writers used to like to run away with the circus. Anyway, I wrote the articles from the perspective of a member of the audience rather than that of a professional critic. I think your dad will understand the reviews whether he likes dance or not."

"Well," Junior grinned with anticipation, "I can just see the expression on dad's face now. Okay, then, since you’re not educated, maybe your dance audience will like your articles because you don't try to dictate taste to them like an expert. You just aim to please, right?"

"No, I don't cater to the audience either. I believe my New York audience will like me even more for that."

"Whatever for?" asked Junior with raised eyebrows, "Because New Yorkers like abuse?"

"Because I'm not one of those unscrupulous writers who orient themselves to the whims of the public."

"Right, Screw the audience! Who cares what they think! Who needs them, anyway?" Junior emphasized after downing a shot of Sambuca.

"The public quickly tires of hacks who write to please and who therefore become deadly bores," Paul continued, momentarily encouraged by what he thought was Junior's enthusiasm. "There is nothing more uninspiring than someone who caters to the public. I refuse to compliment the public with its own thinking. I will make my own audience.  I will.... "

"Yeah, who cares what other people think?" A great artist makes them think his way.” Junior licked his liquor-sweetened lips and guffawed.

"I would rather die of starvation in a garret," Paul sincerely declared, "or jump to my death from its only window than to worry about what other people think. I must honestly record my own experiences and consult only with my muse."

"Well I’ll be damned."

"Last week a reader accused me of forcing her to think my way. I must say whatever comes to mind regardless of whether or not someone might be offended by what or how I think. After all, who cares whether…."

"Nobody cares," Junior interrupted Paul's fervent declaration of independence, reaching for his beer mug to wash down another shot of Sambuca.

"Huh?"                                                       

"I said nobody cares. You'll never become a five-star writer with that approach,” said Junior, revealing his true opinion. “You'll rub too many people the wrong way."

Paul was hurt by the retort but did not want Junior to know it.

"Look, Junior, sorry, what can I call…."

"That's fine, call me Junior."

"OK, then, no problem. If everyone found me agreeable and agreed with me, I'm sure the world would be in big trouble."

"Why? Would you take over the police and the military?" Junior jested, and wiped the beer foam off his lips with his sleeve.

"Maybe, if I could do no wrong. But I can do wrong, yes I can. I seldom agree with myself on the subjects I write about, and to push a particular point of view would make a liar out of me. I am the man without qualifications, no firm opinions. I am not pleased with any work of mine until I have contradicted myself several times. Anything of importance has three or more sides, and running around a polygon is not pleasant work for opinionated people, so I'm bound to upset them."

"I thought you said people would love your shhh, uh, work."

Junior, quite drunk, had grown impatient. He looked around for Senior, who had stopped to chat with someone at a table on his way back to the bar.

"Sure they will, but some people will read it because they love to hate it. As long as they look at it and have a strong opinion even though I don’t have one, that's good enough for me. As for being a five-star or a ten-star writer. No matter how many stars there are in the rating system, I'll be content with two stars as long as I am true to myself."

"Like you said, maybe dad might go for your stuff, but maybe not," Junior offered wanly. "As for me, I'm looking to make another film soon."

"A documentary?"

"No. I've thought about doing another documentary, but art films are my thing."

"Cool. I recall something on cable the other night, an art film in the Village, showing flies buzzing around cow paddies."

"Did you see that? That was mine!"

"Get out of here! No kidding?"

"No kidding!"

"It was excellent, I was really impressed. Say, you should do an artistic documentary about Legs Ballone, the choreographer I told your dad about."

"I heard that. A great choreographer without any legs. The guy's name should be 'Legless.'"

"He can still dance. Dance is the mother of all arts, you know, the most sacred of arts...."

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Paul's recollection of his conversation with Junior was suddenly interrupted by the shouts of a frustrated New Yorker from the corner of the post office.

 "I've had it up to here with you nitwits!" a disheveled man barked out for the whole world to hear, as insecure people are sometimes wont to do. "You sent me over here for stamps, but there are no stamps! No money returned! Paleeeze, somebody get off their rear and come over here and fill up the damned machines!"

Paul had by then worked himself up to sixth in a line of nearly fifty people in a city where the most important thing in the world is one's place in line.

The postal clerk at the head of the line next to Paul's line was saying to a customer, mincing his words with pent-up fury, "There’s no stamps at this window. Please read the sign. It says, 'No stamps.' That means there are no stamps at this window. Please read the sign. You can get in the line over there or get stamps from the machines."

The clerk servicing Paul's line was chewing gum while conversing with yet another clerk sitting behind her almost out of sight, eating a candy bar. From what Paul could glean, they were talking about their union newsletter and their kids. Meanwhile, the irate customer at the stamp machine, one of several who had been turned away from the stamp-less window and directed to the stamp machine, continued with his tantrum, but nobody paid him any mind yet.

An elderly woman, supported by her walker, entered the post office and stopped directly in front of the enraged man, thinking he was speaking to her.

"What? What?" the woman, hard of hearing, asked.

"There's no stamps and no change, lady, so you might as well go home!" the irate customer bellowed, turned and literally ran out the door.

The little old lady slowly navigated a U-turn with her walker and followed him out. Paul was struck by the ludicrous situation and laughed out loud.

Now, being third in line, he returned to his recollection and his hopes of having his literary dreams financed by John Wilson, Senior, Pittsburg steel tycoon, as improbable as that eventuality might seem to any reader in his right mind. Not all dancers are dumb, but Paul was a dumb dancer, indeed.

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