Well, boys and girls, I’ve clocked a week here in my home of Nowhere, just off the corner of Oblivion and Nether, and no major disasters so far. Really, I haven’t done much of anything. I’m working on Ironminds, polishing off my final outline for the book, writing feverishly. That’s about it.

I’ve successfully siphoned myself off from the rest of society. I have no television, no car, no social interaction. Just me, sitting here tap-tap-tapping away, with The Flaming Lips and Nirvana and Radiohead and Bob Dylan providing the soundtrack.

It’s so calm here. I haven’t heard a single car horn since I arrived. Easy does it. Other than Denny, there aren’t many close friends remaining in town, so there is not even the possibility of distraction. Life, for the first time in a while, is feeling good, in place, together, normal. This sojourn has been all I hoped it would be so far, and nothing more. Not a damn thing to do or see exists here, and that’s just the way I like it.

Hey Will. It’s your id. How’s it going?

Quiet, you. Go away. Back off. I’m trying to talk to my readers here. And seriously, can’t you come up with a better introduction than, “Hi, I’m your id?” I mean, please. That’s such a cheap way to painfully force a contrived concept into my column. You’re making me look bad.

Yeah, I’m sure both your readers will be so annoyed by the interruption. Plus, I’ve been reading some of your last few entries, and I’m getting real sick of your passive-aggressive “woe-is-the-poor-little-loser” bullshit. I’ve been silent for too long. Besides, I’m just checking in with you. Sure is weird being back in Mattoon, isn’t it?

No, not really, actually. Very peaceful. It’s pleasant to feel on top of things again.

Kind of a shame your closest friends, other than Denny, have left, isn’t it?

Well, it only seems natural. My clique in high school consisted of the people who desperately wanted to leave. Most of them were successful. And it’s for the best. If there were anybody else here I wanted to see, it would just serve to get in the way of my work.

So there’s nobody here you’d be interested in seeing?

Didn’t I just say that? This place is my past. I haven’t lived here in seven years.

O ... K. Hey, what’s that over there? Is that a Mattoon phone book? Yeah, go pick it up.

No.

Fine. In spite of my inherent limitations as a state of being rather than a physically endowed human with free will and arms and legs, I’ll do it. Let’s see here ... hey, what’s this on page 78?

That’s GAR through GAS.

Yeah, but do you see that name on the second row, about a quarter of the way down? That’s Amy Garrett. Do you remember her?

Uh ... a little. Maybe?

A little? Maybe? So you don’t recognize her as the girl you worshipped all the way through junior high and high school? The one you were about to ask out until Shad Huddleston, one of your best friends, beat you to it? The one you watched date Shad for a year after that? Come on, Will, you remember Amy Garrett! She’s the one you just about asked to the junior homecoming but wimped out. You wrote her long letters that you never delivered. Your friends made fun of you all the time for your thing for her!

Uh ... that’s all kind of hazy. It’s been so long ...

So long, huh? Well how about your fifth-year class reunion?

Um, don’t know what you’re talking about. ANYWAY ... back to the column. Hey, readers, have I told you how much I like Woody Allen? I have? I could probably go into it some more. I remember when I first started watching his -

Five years down the line, a supposed grown man, past all those demons. And there you are, there WE are, drinking too much at the reunion, telling tales of Los Angeles, when BAM, there she was. She’s had a kid since high school, but she’s single now and she looks fantastic. None of this is ringing a bell?

- and then Mia Farrow says to Woody, “How can you have so much hostility about -

And then at the after party, at the grimy bar with peanut shells all over the floor and Queensryche on the jukebox, when you lived out the most boring cliche in the book by actually walking up to her and telling her, “You know, I had a crush on you all throughout high school.” Lord! That sure was embarrassing! That wasn’t even that long ago. Just three years. Heck, she was pretty drunk that night, probably didn’t even understand what you were saying. You never know, Will. If she’s still single ...

Fine! You got me. That happened. I’m not proud of it. That was your fault anyway. It doesn’t matter now; I don’t have a thing for her anymore. And you know I have a girlfriend back in New York, and you know I’m crazy about her.

Granted. But I’m not talking about sex here. I’m talking about resolution. Jeez, aren’t you curious? Amy’s always been an apparition to you, a phantom, this mythic figure with no real basis in reality. She isn’t an actual person to you. Yet there she is! Her number is right there! There! You could just call her. You could prove that you didn’t just imagine her. She’s your little red-headed girl, Will, like from Peanuts! Don’t you want to know what she’s doing now? What she would sound like? Heck, you could just ask her if she ever liked you, or if she didn’t even know you were alive. You can find out what she would have said if you had asked her out before Shad. You would finally know!

You’re starting to sound like High Fidelity.

Maybe, but don’t pretend it isn’t true. You could end all the speculation and wonder right here. Exorcise those demons. All right, you don’t buy that? Fine. Turn to page 109. Toward the bottom. Mark Jackley.

Surely you’re not suggesting we call my high school baseball coach.

Why not? Don’t tell me you don’t want to tell him off. Scream at him for humiliating you by making you keep score for a team you were on! We’ve always thought you’d be in the major leagues right now if he would have just given you a chance to play. But no. It’s his fucking fault. And he’s right there. Here’s your chance.

Listen, I’m just trying to write here. This is simply a place for contemplation and solitude. You’re just trying to make trouble.

Is that right? Okey-dokey, then, last one here, I promise. Turn to page 211.

Taylor? I don’t know anyone named Taylor. Unless Lawrence moved here, and I highly doubt that.

No, no, doofus. This is Mattoon. Taylor is her married name.

Oh. No. You’re not really going to bring up -

That’s right. We’re talking about Myra. Don’t even pretend you don’t remember.

Uh ... um ... readers, look over here! I’ll talk about my weight issues, or my dad’s disappointment in me, or Ben Stein! Yeah, yeah, I was on this game show, see, and -

Haven’t told your readers much about her, have you Will? Well, folks, lemme clue you in. Myra was Will’s first serious girlfriend, an older girl - Will was 16, she was 21 - who was beautiful and smart and saw something in Will other people didn’t see, whatever the hell that was. After much trepidation on both ends - not to mention a little fiance she needed to rid herself of - they finally admitted their mutual attraction and fascination with one another. Will fell hard for her, and she him. Everything was beautiful. Will was suddenly cool, dating some older hot chick - who could drink! And they were great together. But then -

La, la, la, I can’t hear my id, la, la, la! I’m sorry, was someone speaking? I didn’t hear anyone.

Then Will got cocky, full of himself, and he broke up with her, to date some sophomore who looked up to Mr. Senior Guy. Myra was deeply hurt, but she was temporarily better when Will came crawling back to her the summer before he left for college. To be with him, she broke up another potentially blossoming relationship - a costly move in a town where, at 22, you’re an old maid - and all was good, because Will was scared about going to college and needed someone who cared about him. That is, until Will met a college girl, from Chicago and all sophisticated, someone who made him feel smart, and he ended it again, this time for good. Will tried again later, after the Chicago girl turned out to be less than what he expected, but this time Myra had moved on. She was dating a cop, who forbade her from talking to Will anymore, which sounds like an unfair request to make of one’s girlfriend but, given Will’s history, in retrospect looks quite understandable. And then they ended up getting married. Hey, Will, when’s the last time you talked to her?

Uh, I think it’s been about six years.

Wow. Six years. The first woman you ever cared about, the one who taught you so much, the one who made you feel important, like there was something special about you, for the first time ... her number’s right there, on page 211.

I know it is.

But of course you won’t call. You won’t find out what she’s doing. You won’t apologize. You’re just here for the writing, right? The solitude? The quiet? The peace? No demons lurking around Mattoon, no no. The place is just a joke for your columns, a quaint Mayberry, a place you’re through with, right?

Uh ... sure.

You’re full of shit, Will.

I know.

Now, let’s go get a pizza. I’m starving.

Listen, id, I’m trying to lose weight. Give me a break here.

You’re such a wuss.

*BT*

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