It is not unusual for me to awake at 3 a.m. and turn on the writing machine. I never know what may spill forth as the keys clatter away, breaking night’s silence.
Sadly, my mind is like the belly of a great white shark, filled with everything from garbage to rare gems, odds and ends scrounged from ancient shipwrecks and clothing attached to humans who chose to swim in the wrong place. I might dredge up something as inexplicable as a rusted Arkansas license plate, a label from a can of tuna fish, or a lone mitten, once worn by a one handed pirate. The belly of the beast is never empty at 3 a.m. On this particular night I was distracted, however, thinking about the literary agent in Seattle; the one who by now may have received the short stories I sent to her. I need help, you see, and I also need an agent. Dutchess County is not enough for me – I want to reach the world.
I had sent the work to a Ms. Elizabeth Wales, of the Wales Literary Agency. The thought crossed my mind that this Wales woman must have connections with some of the most reputable publications in America, if not at least in her immediate zip code. I imagined her on the phone with the publisher of some obscure magazine in Seattle.
“Jenkins, I’ve landed a good one. I want you to see what he sent me. No, fool, it’s not pornography. This is a man of letters, a literary diamond in the rough. I tell you, Jenkins, he sent me enough to line my cat’s litter box, and you can probably have it for a song. Say maybe $50. Why, my cut would be more than I’ve made in a fortnight!”
Yes, my thoughts at 3 a.m. are not always the most coherent, but this unbridled optimism carried over to 6:30, when I awoke for the final time this day. I was so excited that I hurriedly put up a pot of plain water. You cannot imagine the devastation I experienced, anticipating a wonderful, hot mug of fresh brewed coffee. Still, my spirits were undaunted, and on re-filling the pot and remembering the coffee this time, I threw myself into my favorite chair, a recliner I have been sitting in for the past 20 years, and tuned into WDST, the only radio station I ever listen to. The morning show is immensely entertaining. By the time the real coffee was ready, I was back at this writing machine of mine, typing away. By sheer accident, which has happened more times than I can count on both feet, I knocked over the coffee mug. The contents landed directly on my cell phone, and I assumed the worst.
Later that morning, I found that my cell phone worked despite the infusion of coffee. In fact, my calls were connecting faster. Is that possible? I shall have to write to Verizon to inform them of my discovery. Better yet, I think I will seek a patent. There could be a fortune in it for me. Just imagine, little packets of pure caffeine, sold as accessories in stores worldwide. I will name it the “Caffeine Connection.” No doubt, I will find myself on the Letterman show, and I will become fast friends with Oprah, who will become so enamored of me that she will leave me in her will as the sole beneficiary of her vast fortune.
That led me to think that I ought to see my doctor. I must remain healthy enough to outlive that woman, no matter what kind of pills I have to take to do it.
Almost unbelievable, is it not? In a matter of hours, I am sitting on the threshold of billions of dollars and all the fame that always tags along with that kind of money. All it took was a spilled mug of coffee. This is truly the land of opportunity. I must remember to send a check to Hillary Clinton’s campaign fund. By all means, I will include a personal note informing her that I am about to become one of the wealthiest men in the world. Four years from now, I may find myself on Hillary’s ticket for vice president.
I know what you are thinking. I am getting ahead of myself, daydreaming my life away. But this has a good feel – it is the break I have been waiting for. Realistically, I’ll have to decline the vice presidency. Too much work. Don’t worry, though, I will continue to write this column, which I will e-mail to my editor from my own private island in the South Pacific. Naturally, I will do what all real writers do, drink bourbon to excess and write trashy novels in my spare time.
Ah, I see it is time for me to sign off. Suddenly I find myself overwhelmed with things to do. I must meet immediately with a patent attorney about my cell phone invention. Then I need to sit myself down and write a screenplay. After all, anybody who is “anybody” writes a screenplay. Once I am done with that and have mailed it off to Oprah, I can settle into some quality fantasy about my new island paradise in the sun. Goodbye!