The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 127
I was out of touch. Never guessed that with traffic on the highway tripling over my 16 years here that rents would coincide. Or that to even qualify as a renter you needed credit history, employment history, bank records, personal refs, place of residence verification info, SS#, valid CA ID#, proof of income + first, last, security deposit and, if you were a pet owner and the place you were interested in even allowed pets, a pet deposit.
Yeah, I’d put the word out, but it was unlikely anybody would come through, and, curiously, impossible in the case of the people I was closest to.
Mike, who proudly labeled himself a pragmatist, suggested a roommate situation.
Me: Dude, that’s the kind of thing you do in college, isn’t it? But nevermind. Just writing to ask what you’ve done with my novel so far.
Mike: Just finished a cover letter to Knopf. Will send that out, along with the first 50 pages, this coming Monday. McSweeney’s and City Lights to follow.
Me: I’ll need to proof it first.
He sends a copy of the cover letter Friday evening and… it’s all about HIM. In three tiny little paragraphs there are nine “I” references. “I think” or “I am” or “I feel,” on and on and on as if he’s attempting to get the publishers to ignore the work he’s representing—my work—and request a collection of HIS short fiction instead.
It’s been 50+ years that I’ve endured this asshole—this sick, sad sociopath who I’ve allowed to sucker me again and again.
Time to end it.
So I did.
Jones: Yeah, I get it, amigo. But you don’t suppose Insight Meditation Center, for example, checks the Morality-O-Meter every time they cash a donation.
Me: True. His… generosity got me outta some messes.
Jones: And now?
Me: Avoid the messes.