(Received from Scott after he read "In Watermelon Sugar" by Richard Brautigan)
Author: Scott Breeden
Date: 2/15/97 08:10 PM
TO: charlie.wallace@nellcorpb.com at INTERNET-MAIL
Subject: reading and writing
------------------------------- Message Contents -------------------------------
Charlie-
OK, I read it.
Enclosed, believe it or not, is the more or less true story.
-Scott
Writing 21
In watermelon sugar the deeds were done and done again as my
life is done in watermelon sugar. I'll tell you about it
because I am here and you are distant.
My office at the Mirror Works has a desk, a telephone, a
writing machine, and a window. The desk is made of plastic
and watermelon sugar, as most things here are. The
telephone is black, with red lights on it like tiny rubies.
There are two rows of red lights, one above the other. Each
row has four lights.
The ruby telephone lights blink on when someone at the
Mirror Works begins an important conversation with someone
distant. They blink off when the important conversation is
over. Right now the first light on the top row is glowing,
as well as the last two lights on the bottom row. This
means that one person who is distant has decided to have an
important conversation with someone at the Mirror Works.
Meanwhile, two people at the Mirror Works have called out,
seeking important conversation from over the hill or outside
town.
The writing machine is what I am using to tell you this
story with. I feed it words, and it arranges them in neat
rows on the screen, using just the right letters. The rows
of letters look like rows of seeds in a slice of watermelon,
glowing in soft gray watermelonlight.
The window looks out on the road, and the road looks north
and south. The hills just behind the road look green. The
trucks pass over the road all day without saying anything.
In the evenings, I ride home in one of the trucks. I did
that the day I read my book.
When I got out of the truck that evening, the stars were
already out. I stopped to pick up my mail. Melanie came
over from iSORE. "Good. No mail," she said. Then we
walked over to iSORE. "Got to pick up dinner for the kids,"
she said, opening the door. "God, how I hate cooking." I
left Melanie at iSORE, and walked over the river to my
shack.
There are many rivers near my shack. Most of them are quite
small. One of them runs down the hill beside my shack, and
is small enough to park a truck on. The truck was still
there that evening. Many years ago, during the time of the
tigers, the rivers were much bigger, and could push trucks
around like young trout that are too small to fight back.
But now there are no more trout, or tigers, and the river
beside my shack slinks quietly downhill in the moonlight and
then under the road where no one can see it.
I started to read my book because my friend Charlie said I
should. "It is a good book," he said. "You should read
it." I lit the watermelontrout oil lamp and began to read.
The moths began fluttering around the lamp and reading, too.
The fluttering shadows from their wings were like having a
fire in the fireplace behind me. There were many moths
fluttering around my lamp that evening. Now that the trout
aren't eating them, the moths can afford to spend more time
reading.
After a while, there was a knock on the door. I got up from
my couch by the river and went over to see who it was. It
was Patricia. I let her in.
"I saw the truck was still on your river today," she said.
She was holding two small squares of pink paper in her
hands.
"Yes," I said. "It's still there."
"Well," said Patricia, "I made some phone calls. I found
out where you can call to have it towed away." She was
looking directly at me as she spoke, and did not notice as
one of her pink paper squares fell silently from her hand
and fluttered to the rug like a moth. I bent down to pick
it up. "Oh, that's for you," she said. "It's the number of
the towing company."
Sometimes a friend of Patricia's would drive by to visit
her. He would try to park his truck on my river. On top of
his truck was a canoe. The canoe was handmade of wood
planks and watermelon sugar. It stuck out quite a bit over
both ends of the truck, and made parking near Patricia's
shack difficult, especially if there was already a truck
parked on my river, between my shack and Patricia's shack.
I had not seen this truck in a while.
"Thank you," I said. "I still don't know whose truck that
is."
"I don't know, either," said Patricia. "I tried to find
out, but they wouldn't tell me." She handed me the other
pink square of paper. Both pieces were sticky on one side,
so they would stick to anything near a telephone and remind
you to hold an important conversation. The writing was in
red.
"I suppose I should put a sign on that truck, to find out
who owns it," I said.
"If you want it towed," said Patricia, "it has to be in
towable condition. And one of the tires is going flat now."
"Thank you," I said. "I wondered about that. That truck
hasn't been bothering me much, but I suppose it could get in
other people's way. I'll put up a sign, and if nothing
happens in a week or so, I'll call the towing company."
Patricia smiled, and noticed the wood plank walls of my
shack, fluttering with moth shadows. "How old is this
shack?" she asked.
"Pretty old," I said. "There used to be another shack next
door, where the truck is, but the river washed it away a
long time ago."
"How long have you lived here?"
"A few years. I've seen a lot of people move in and out."
"I'm thinking of moving too, in a few months. Well, good-
night."
"Good-night," I said.
I made a sign out of cardboard and watermelon sugar,
arranging the words in neat rows, using just the right
letters. Then I stuck the sign to the truck like a big note
to remind you to hold an important conversation. "IS THIS
YOUR TRUCK?" said the sign.
Then I read the rest of my book, while the moths fluttered
around the lamp and read the rest of the book, too. Charlie
was right. It was a good book.