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(Continued)
Not for long. Fifteen minutes later, Hanson called, giddy.
“I think you’ve done it, Tom. You’ve definitely done it this time. A piece like this, I could get you a monthly in a magazine. I’m impressed. Quality change out the
wazoo, better than that Buckaroo Ace shit you always write.”
“Glad you liked it, Hanson. Glad you liked it.”
“Liked it? Hell, I’m thinking about committing this memory! Damn fine work you’ve done!”
“Thank you, Hanson, thank you.”
“I’ll send it out immediately, Tom. Today, oh boy... Today, you’ve made me proud to be your editor.”
A shallow sentiment.
“Thanks, Hanson.”
The line clicked. I made Spaghetti-O’s. No, not nutritious, but on sale. Not even edible anymore. Eating was a facade.
The phone rang again.
“Hey, Tom?”
“What, Hanson?”
“I want to ask you about the story. What inspired it?”
I paused, digging into the back of my mind.
“The Lion King.”
“The Lion King?”
“And Hamlet. Teen angst. New wave emo bands. That kind of thing. Acting like a teenager when we know I’m a grown man. What I think they think like, that kind of thing.”
There was a pause.
“That’s not quite what I meant, Tom.”
“What did you mean?”
“Well, page eight...”
Maybe I hadn’t been as clever as I had initially thought.
“I know the slaying of the beast is symbolic. I know it has something to do with your life.”
“Oh, oh.... That?”
“Yes.”
I paused. Had to phrase it right. “Just a hurdle I had to overcome, I suppose.”
It was Hanson’s turn to pause. “All right. It was most interesting in the context of the story, though.”
“Thank you, Hanson.”
“All right. Tell Betty I say ‘hi,’ will
ya?”
I choked on my spit. “Of course, next time I see her.”
“You haven’t reconciled yet?”
“No. She decided to move out.”
“Oh... I’m sorry, Tom.”
“Don’t worry about it, Hanson. Don’t worry.”
“Alright, Tom. Well, next time you see her, tell her I said ‘hello,’ all right?”
I laughed. “All right, Hanson.”
I hung up the phone and scraped my Spaghetti-O’s into the trash, lifting the cover of the can and tying the bag up. Outside, the wind picked up slightly as I opened the lid of the larger bin, and tossed the bag in.
There was a funny thud as it landed on the irregularly shaped series of gym bags I had thrown away earlier this week, before I began my story.
Tough beast to slay.
I’ll have to tell her, “Hello,” for Hanson if I ever see her again...
But you and I both know I won’t.
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MICHAEL GETTINGS was born in Midlothian, Virginia, but is currently residing in Manhattan spending his college money on an apartment. He began writing at the age of seven, and he is currently eighteen. He is an aspiring writer and part-time salesman. Michael just finished writing his first novel and is currently in the editing stages.
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