The Book of Joe

you, talking about girls and music, smoking a joint, and you know who benefits from all that? Me. Because I get to feel like I have a family. But it does no good for you. You need a parent now, not a friend. And if there’s one thing I am qualified to talk about, it’s fucking things up with my father, so I’m going to give you the only advice I can: lose the attitude and let your father in. I know it won’t be easy, but I can promise you that if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”
    Jared looks at me for a minute, then nods. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”
    “Good. Now what’s with the birdcage?” He’s carrying a large white birdcage in which an agitated Shnookums is being jostled mercilessly from side to side as we walk.
    “Much like yourself, Shnookums needs to keep a low profile for a little while where the folks are concerned. I had a meeting with my sisters, and we elected you temporary custodian.” He smiles and hands me the birdcage.
    “When do I feed it?”
    “I’ll come by and feed it.”
    “You’re not supposed to hang out with me.”
    “Pay attention, man. I never do what I’m supposed to do.”
    “You want a bird?” I ask Carly when she opens the door.
    She studies me on her doorstep with a whimsical smile.
    She’s wearing Bush Falls High sweatpants and a tank top and chewing comically on a large raw carrot. “Who’s that?” she asks.
    “This is Shnookums. She’s a cockatoo.”
    “Oh, my god, Joe. She’s bleeding!”
    “That’s marinara sauce.”
    “Oh. Well, that’s okay, then.”
    “I’ve had an interesting night.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” she says, smiling as she munches on her carrot. “And now you’ve made mine more interesting.”
    “I was on my way home from Brad’s and I was passing by, so I thought I’d stop in for a minute.”
    “My house isn’t on the way home from Brad’s.”
    “Don’t be so literal.”
    “Okay,” Carly says. “I was just doing a little work. Would you like to come in? The bird can come too, of course.”
    “I want to, but I won’t,” I say. “I’ve got some work of my own I need to get back to.”
    “You’re writing?”
    “I am. Finally.”
    She nods. “So what can I do for you?”
    “I was hoping that maybe I could kiss you again.”
    Her smile is the sun on my face. “I was hoping you could too.” She steps down to join me on her front stairs, and we’re face-to-face. “I’ve got carrot breath,” she says.
    “I love carrots.”
    She grabs two small fistfuls of my shirt. “Whatever floats your boat, Romeo.”

Thirty-Four
    It will take Owen another few days to pull together everything we need for Wayne, and Wayne tells me that’s perfect, because he’d like to spend another day or two in his childhood bedroom, looking through his drawers and shelves, re-visiting his youth one last time. I suspect he’s actually trying to give his mother a little more time in the hopes that she’ll emerge from her religious stupor long enough for a genuine good-bye, and while I understand this desire, I’m not optimistic on his behalf.
    I don’t bother shaving or showering or even brushing my teeth when I wake up the next morning, but simply roll out of bed and head straight downstairs in my boxers to get to work on my manuscript. As I lay falling asleep the night before, Carly’s kisses still lingering on my lips, I was awash in ideas for the novel: plot points, character quirks, expressions, and even whole paragraphs composed in my mind that I want to get down before I forget about them. Writing without grooming somehow feels better, more conducive to the whole enterprise, as if by neglecting all superficial considerations I will channel all my energies into the internal processes of creation. And so I sit, my breath stale, my hair a greasy mess, my skin stubbly and unwashed, and I feel, more than ever, like a writer. I imagine that Hemingway didn’t mess around with aftershave and toothbrushes when in the throes of writing.
    It’s in this soiled state that I answer the doorbell to find Lucy Haber standing on my porch, clutching a copy of Bush Falls to her chest. She’s applied her makeup with a heavy hand, and I find myself thinking for the first time that there’s an element of desperation in her appearance, something that tries too hard for a woman her age, and then I feel ashamed for the uncharitable thought. My face on the back cover, looking up at me from her bosom, seems like an indictment.
    “Did I