That One Time I...

… Had A (Fictional) Meetup To Discuss A New Writing Project, Part II

NOTE: Please read yesterday’s entry before this one or else this portion of the short story won’t make any sense. — Robzilla

“So.” 

30 year old me’s nonplussed attitude makes that one syllable word sound both like a question and a statement. I get him. He’s two years away from attempting to write his first novel, and if I remember correctly his go to reading material right now is all things NHL and NASCAR, not Nicholas Sparks or James Patterson.

“It’s going to be a special book for all of us,” I state as I beckon them to lean in closer to spill the deets. “I want to write something based on some of our, ahem, romantic misadventures.” Their reactions tell me it will play to mixed reviews. A smirk appears on 25 year old me’s chiseled face before he bursts out laughing, so I know he’s down for a first draft. Then I notice the almost cherubic 30 year old me’s jaw slacken. He sits there and stares at us silently, as if his next breath struggles to pass through parted lips.

“Oh, this could be a lot of fun,” 25 year old me teases me with a look that’s wasted on someone not named Jimmy Garoppolo or Kathy Ireland. “Will this book be like one of those romance novels a woman keeps on her nightstand to escape reality? Or will the writing make the editor of Penthouse Forum blush?” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” 30 year old me states in that pragmatic way of talking I’ve adopted to discuss serious matters like finances and early retirement. “If someone links that book back to me, my career will be over. I still have another three and a half decades to go before I can retire, and...”

“It’s two, actually,” I interrupt him.

“Huh?” they both exclaim in wide eyed unison, as if they’ve assumed all along they’d keep working until the day they die.

“That’s not important right now,” I reply to steer the conversation back on topic. “This book is not meant for publication, so neither of you will have to worry about dusting off your resumes. I’ve been reflecting on my past in recent months and I've made quite some interesting self discoveries. So I thought it would be fun to have something hidden in a drawer or a bookshelf that I can read once in awhile to remember the good times.”

“Well,” 30 year old me remarks as his finger traces the lip of his beer mug. “When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad. You’ll remember to change the names of people and places to protect the innocent and not so innocent. Right?” This version of me has issues verbally expressing his true feelings, but I understand him enough to know I have his approval. I flash him a smile and then turn my attention to the nearly unbridled version of me.

“Should I help you get some more source material to work with?” 25 year old me asks. I notice his eyes wander to the bottle blonde dancer shimmying down the length of a brass pole, and when our smirk returns to his lips I already know how he’s going to approach her when she leaves the stage.

“That won’t be necessary.” 

My hand shoots out faster than those words pass my lips, and it presses his shoulder to root him in place. In that instant, everything that had happened to me between my early twenties to my early forties flashes through my mind. It’s not my final moments before death. Rather, it’s the important matters I must tell these men. My biggest regret. My cautionary tale. The things we all harbor as we age. 

“We need to talk,” I tell 25 year old me as I bore my narrowed gaze into his. As the seconds pass like minutes, he now understands that I am — not him — the alpha male sitting at this table.

To be continued…