The Book of Joe

up-bringing, and she’s fleeing an abusive husband and the law.
    Romance and chaos ensue amid the tie-dyed backdrop of the rock-and-roll bedouin culture. Not the most original premise in the world, but I really did start the novel with the best of literary intentions, meaning to tell a contemporary love story while examining the way in which people struggle against America’s invisible class system. The spare combination of two main characters and their unique spin on a universal theme should have kept me focused on the story without being overly ambitious. But they made the movie of Bush Falls while I was writing It Starts Here, and there is no denying that the film perverted my writing. I was blocking shots instead of describing scenes, an entirely transparent and unacceptable practice when writing outside the milieu of courtrooms and serial killers.
    “Listen,” Owen says. “I’m barely into it, so this conversation is premature. Talk to me after the weekend.”
    “But we’ve ruled out loving it.”
    “Does it get better?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Ah.”
    “Don’t ‘ah’ me.”
    “Hmm,” Owen says.
    “So,” I say after a bit. “What now?”
    He coughs lightly. “Listen, Joe, you’re a good writer. Blah, blah, blah. You don’t have to prove anything to me. But I really don’t want to talk about this until I’ve read it all. Then we can sit down and decide what it needs.”
    What it needs, I suspect, is to be taken out back and given the Old Yeller treatment. “And if it needs to be scrapped?”
    “Then we’ll scrap it,” he says easily. “And you’ll write me something else. Happens all the time.”
    “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
    “It’s not my job to jerk you off. You want to feel better, go back to therapy. My job is to make you write better, and it’s been my considerable experience that the worse you feel, the better you write.”
    “Wonderful,” I say dejectedly. I don’t bother to point out that I’ve been fairly miserable for the last six months and haven’t managed to write a single sentence worth shit and that it positively terrifies me to think that I might be one of those poor slobs who have only one book in them.
    Owen changes the subject. “So, you’re going back to the Falls. Let me once again say wow. This could be interesting.”
    “I’m just hoping for quick.”
    “Well, keep me posted. I want to hear every last detail.”
    “Owen,” I say. “Sometime in the future, you really should consider getting a life of your own.”
    He chuckles. “I had one once and discovered that they’re overrated. Besides, I don’t need one anymore. I have yours.”
    “ ’Bye.”
    I hit the END button, turn the stereo back on, and step a little harder on the accelerator. The engine responds instantly with a deep, low growl. Within minutes I’m on the Merritt Parkway, luxuriating in the way the Mercedes chews up the dipping curves of the two-lane blacktop. I’m still in the formative stages of a love-hate relationship with the car.
    There’s no denying that it handles like a dream, practically anticipating my every move. But on the other hand, everyone who can afford a Mercedes doesn’t necessarily belong in one, and I’m becoming increasingly convinced that I fit into that category. The car embarrasses me, and I sometimes find myself grinning apologetically at passing motorists in Fords and Toyotas, as if those perfect strangers know I’m really one of them, out doing some unseemly social climbing. The sleek German design was never intended to house my petty insecurity.
    The Parkway winds its way through the green Connecticut foliage, the outer edges of the leaves just beginning to glow red, signifying the approaching autumn. I sing along loudly to “Thunder Road” in an attempt to distract myself from the anxiety rising in me with each passing mile, but it’s no use.
    I’m assaulted by a steady barrage of scenes from my past that flash by too quickly for proper identification but nonetheless leave me feeling vaguely disturbed. And then, as I’m passing Norwalk, Bruce begins singing “Backstreets” and, as if on cue, Sammy Haber emerges without warning from the back of my mind, striding purposefully across the stage of my brain in his checkered pants and that ridiculous pompadour. The image is so complete, so overwhelmingly perfect, that I feel my throat constrict and tears well up unbidden in my eyes. I take a deep breath, but the