Author's Comments: I have no
idea where or for what reason I wrote this. Likely as part of
an assignment for a class, but I felt it needed to be here because
it really takes a gander, albeit a short one, inside who I am and
who I once was.
My face flushed, I'm certain, with the
Oedipal fury I could feel erupting within me, like some faraway
Pacific island, suddenly bursting with the power of the earth. They
were simple words, carrying little meaning in and of themselves,
words that had any friend spoken would have received, at most, a
lash of the sarcastic whip, or, at least, a laugh and a lash. Had
they been uttered by a critic, perhaps a pshaw would have been in
order, and a commentary on the critic's eloquence, or lack thereof.
However, the remark was owned by neither friend or foe. I recall my
mind stuttering for a response, one which evoke a realization of how
much damage to my ego was done, but which would not bring about
further repercussions. It had to be timed well, emphasized correctly,
and be of the proper composition. Time, of course, had been lost in
the initial confusion of searching for proper emphasis and
composition, and, thus, composition and emphasis soon fell as well,
as if by edict of some McCarthy-Era theory. My response isn't
important, insomuch as it was irrelevant, futile, and lacking any
sort of the imagination I try to pride myself on in my more prideful
moments. However, there is one detail which I recall now, one which
cannot, should not, be missed. I recall, as my mind was groping for
words, that my hands were searching for something.
It was a book.
Sometimes, though, a cigar isn't just a cigar.