“Bonnie!” Mr. Gibson calls. “Get away from therrr. Over therrr. Thas a good gurl, Bonnie. Good gurl.” 

I always knew when Mr. Gibson let Bonnie out,  especially in warm weather when our windows were open. He usually sat on his back step, smoking a Chesterfield, giving Bonnie the same directions he always did. The hedges between the two houses were on my grandparents' property, and even though every hedgerow has two sides, Mr. Gibson never permitted his little, mixed breed collie to relieve herself anywhere near them. He rented the first floor of the house next door, and lived there with Mrs. Gibson, and their two children, Jimmy and Christina. They were older than me. Someone said they were adopted. I never asked. Neither had their father’s sandy-red hair.

Mr. Gibson was a Scotsman, a mason, and a bagpiper. Whenever I see a bottle of Dewar’s whiskey I think of him in his tartan bagpiper’s uniform and the many times his friends rendezvoused at his house before heading to a ceremony or parade. Sometimes they rehearsed a tune in the driveway before piling into the cars and driving off.

Mr. Gibson had a gas engine lawn mower. We had a push model. He always asked if he could cut our grass. His twenty-by-eight front yard only took three minutes, our yard took thirty. Afterward, Grandma and Grandpa invited him in. He sat at the kitchen table and graciously accepted the shot and the beer which had somehow become part of the tradition. 

He was our neighbor for twenty-odd years. When Mrs. Gibson died, Mr. Gibson was visibly heartbroken. He didn’t last a year without her.

© M.F. Tedesco

I sit on a little step stool in the bookshop, listening to E.L. Doctorow read a story from his new book. There is a short question and answer session after. His answers are long and thoughtful and much more interesting than the original questions. When the moderator announces "one more," I try to ask the last question, but a woman up front, who I cannot see, gets the chance and delivers a long, rambling monologue about something I can't hear.

"I don't quite know how to answer that," E.L. Doctorow replies patiently, "But the subject of China is there, and wide open."

My question would have been: Which if any of your novels is your favorite? Mine are "World's Fair," and "Billy Bathgate."

Those of us who bought books stand in line and wait to have them signed by the author. The publisher's assistant, who can't be more than 22 and looks like she should be wearing pajamas and big fuzzy slippers, hands out index cards for us to place on the page we want signed. I try to use my own pen to write my name (M.F. Tedesco) but she insists that I use the felt marker that she has just sneezed on. When I'm next in line, she takes my card and puts it in another page because "he likes to sign them there." I think she's annoying, but when I stand before E.L. Doctorow, who is looking down, signing my books, I say what I came to say.

"Mr. Doctorow, you've been an inspiration to me for thirty years and a big part of the reason why I get up at five every day to write before I go to work." When he looks up and smiles, I add the last of it. "I hope you'll accept some of my obscure efforts as a gift."

"Put them here," he says, patting the table. "It may take me some time."

"That's all right. Please drop me a line if you like."

"Best of luck to you."

"I can always use it."

Walking home, feeling a bit like a fool or maybe an unknown writer of substance, I can't help but wonder if my two novels will leave with E.L. Doctorow or meet an unintended fate. I suspect my success or failure may in part depend upon his young publicist and her germy felt marker. As usual, I feel like the odds are against me.

At home, maybe a bit pissed off, I pour a little glass of Jameson and stretch out on the couch. It’s okay I decide. If you don’t take a shot, you’ll never hit the target.

 © M.F. Tedesco