My Best Hollis Gillespie Impression
Posted by: Nat Porter in Books & Mags, Entertainment, Humor
“The next time I see that ‘bleachy-haired honkey bitch‘ I’m going to wring her scrawny little neck!” Ced didn’t even look up from the notebook where he was working on a Sudoku puzzle. By now he was used to me bursting into rooms and hurling insane declarations. I call it starting a story “in medias res”. I learned that term in my 12th grade AP English class while studying epic poetry. Epic poems start in medias res (in the middle of things) so that the reader is thrust into the action of the story. The details of the past are filled in later, like poetic flashbacks. It’s more dramatic that way. As soon as Mrs. Stevenson wrote it on the board, it became less of a literary term and more of a credo for me. Ced understands, so now it doesn’t phase him at all. That and he really really likes Sudoku.
“Who are we murdering now?” He asks, taking a sip of coffee. “I just want to make sure I have the right size trash bags.”
“Hollis FUCKING Gillespie! Who else?” I then had to explain to him how Chrisco has been prodding me to compile my columns into a book for years, because, according to him, I’m like the rap Hollis Gillespie. I had shrugged it off at the time because I knew the book wasn’t really selling. What’s the point, I thought. Who wants to read about one odd chick’s quirky observations about life? Then I find out that she’s touring to promote her third book and her - get this - TELEVISION DEAL! What the hell? “What’s she got that I don’t have??” I demanded.
Ced furrowed his brow, then rotated his pencil to erase a misplaced 6. I would not have reacted, except that Ced never messes up on a sudoku puzzle. He’s sort of a savant. I had struck a nerve. The last time I asked that question, we were sitting in a coffee shop just like this one. I had just left my 7-year-old daughter at a play date with my friend’s son who is in love with her. When I left, they were planning the menu for the “cat wedding”, a touching union of his new Siamese kitten and my 16-year-old spayed calico. The little boy wasn’t that interested in the feline nuptials, but he liked to get practice in, since, according to him, he and my daughter would be planning their own wedding one day. The theme, he said, would be Spiderman.
It was stupid, of course, but it made me tear up anyway. My 7-year-old had found true love, even though she was oblivious to it at the moment. Even my old-ass cat could manage a May-December romance of sorts. I, on the other hand, was doomed to spend my days roaming the earth alone, unwanted, unloved. I panicked and begged Ced to meet me at our usual coffee shop, where I later stormed into the place, and right in middle of everything, demanded that he stop dicking around with his chickenhead girlfriend and marry me already.
He didn’t appreciate it then, either, and he told me so, the first and only time I have ever heard him raise his voice to me. The other coffee shop patrons, of course, didn’t know why. They were just coming in on a dramatic scene. They didn’t understand how us heroes of epic poetry get down. See, epic heroes are extraordinary figures, usually with superhuman qualities. They can accomplish amazing feats, but in every epic poem the hero is eventually brought down by the classic fatal flaw, hubris. I knew Ced had always had a little crush on me. I taught him things, I made him laugh, I could read his mind, and my smile is like angels fucking. Yet, I had failed to consider that no matter how superhuman our friendship was, expecting him to forget that he loved his girlfriend was the arrogant blow that mortally wounded his respect for me. She was a sweet girl with a good heart. She had stood by him faithfully to make their relationship work. Failing to respect that only showed why I was alone.
It took us a long time to find another coffee shop after my outburst got us ejected that day, but here we were again. I lowered my voice and calmed down. He looked up at me, finally, but he didn’t have to say anything. As usual, I read his mind. Yes, Nat Porter’s got an extraordinary pen game, and her insights are downright heroic, but banking on her talent so much that she doesn’t see she needs to respect hard work, that just might kill her career.
“I know. I’m being stupid. I know I’m a decent writer, but Hollis Gillespie actually put in the work and made it happen for herself. Of course she deserves everything she has.” I sighed and sank back into my chair. Ced leaned over the table and kissed me on the forehead. “You’ll get there. I know you will.” He handed me his pencil and notebook.
Next time I see Hollis Gillespie, I’ll probably hug her. I won’t even introduce myself or explain why or anything. Sure, she will probably be confused being thrust into the middle of some stranger’s professional epiphany, but that’s how we epic heroes do. It’s more dramatic that way.
