What's for Dinner?

Judy Goldwyn

Judy.goldwyn@gmail.com

203-209-8098

                                         What's For Dinner?                     

Bradley looked at his watch for the fifth time. It was 2:12, exactly 42 minutes had gone by since he first checked. “Keep your eyes off the watch and concentrate,” Bradley often spoke to himself, especially since the quarantine started. Nobody else was there to listen, anyway. At least no other human.

The computer screen was blank except for the title, A Layman’s View of the Psychological Effects of Quarantine. He knew he was lucky to get this job, and he didn’t want to mess up. This was the opportunity he had been looking for, an article for the publisher of seven local magazines throughout the state. When his friend Marianne recommended him for the job, she warned him, “Mr. Harris is a terrific boss, very open to new approaches, and encouraging to young writers,” she said. “But the one thing that he will not compromise on is deadlines. If he tells you it has to be finished by March 21 at 5:00 PM, you’d better have it in his hands by March 21 at 4:59 PM.”

“Hey, Marianne,” Bradley said. “You know me. You know I’m always dependable.”

“That’s why I feel comfortable recommending you,” Marianne said. “I’ve known Mr. Harris all my life. He’s a friend of my father’s. He and his wife come over for barbecues in the summer, and they even go on vacations with my parents. I love talking with him because he can speak intelligently on almost any subject.”

Bradley had heard these facts at least twice before in the previous weeks. When he told Marianne that he had applied for this freelance writing position for Mr. Mark Harris, she practically jumped up and down with excitement. “I know him,” she bubbled in an unfamiliar, almost childlike voice. “I can get you the gig. I mean I know I can get him to consider you for this job.”  Obviously Marianne, whom he respected and liked, had a special relationship with Mr. Harris. Bradley had only heard and read about Mark Harris before. He had no idea that actually she knew him. Everyone knew of Mark Harris. He was a highly successful publisher, a mentor to several popular writers, a television screen writer with a portfolio of three long-running series on two networks, and a philanthropist who only took on charities that would welcome his personal participation in their fund-raising efforts. Bradley was embarrassed to tell Marianne that he had not seen the cable television special about Mark Harris in January, but he would make it a priority as soon as he finished this article.

Now, sitting in his office, Bradley looked at his watch for the sixth time. “My mind is wandering,” he said to himself. He nodded his head, assumed what he thought would be a businesslike look on his face, and put his hands on the keyboard. A tiny smile, actually only a slight lift of his lips on the left side of his face, assured him that he was on the right track.

He started writing, referring to the notes he had taken while researching his subject. One paragraph, two paragraphs, he was on a roll. Suddenly his concentration was disturbed by a tickling on his right leg. In an attempt to impede the progress of the interference, he reached down and slapped the outside of his right shin, the location of the tickle. It didn’t work, but he continued writing.

Rereading his last paragraph, he realized that the distraction was taking its toll. Typos and fragments of words made the writing unintelligible. “What the hell….” He spoke to the screen. ‘If a actul dgns of dupresion is made…’ he shook his head in frustration that started building toward anger. His fingers were no longer on the keyboard.  “You little pain,” he said looking down. “Why now? I was looking for you all morning and you were hiding. Now you decide you want to play.” He pulled his leg away which took some force. “Leave me alone, Anthony!” Bradley snarled hoping his tone of voice would have some effect.

Bradley looked at his watch for the seventh time. This time he did not calculate the number of minutes he had been at this task. He realized he hadn't eaten yet today, and he was hungry. He put his hands on the keyboard and started rewriting the garbled words of his paragraph. “Talk about depression,” he said to himself. “This is what happens when you have no human company for all these weeks. I'm tired and hungry and I have nothing in the house for a decent dinner.” Finished feeling sorry for himself, Bradley was about to go back to work when he realized the tickle was there again. Bradley braced himself, determined to ignore the sensation. He continued to write. Another paragraph was complete and, as he reread his work, Bradley tried to visualize Mr. Mark Harris reading this article and loving it. Harris would be sitting at his huge wooden desk in his corner office overlooking downtown. He’d lean back in the comfortable black leather chair, smiling. Mr. Harris likes it!

“Damn you, Anthony,” Bradley shouted, looking down at the source of the persistent tickle. “Get yourself lost like you did this morning.”

Bradley did not look at his watch. He picked up his notes and started rereading. Marine had also cautioned him about plagiarism, misquoting experts, double checking facts, and crediting sources. His intent was to read through his manuscript and compare it to his notes. Plagiarism was not a concern because he was not getting his information from previously printed material. Had he credited sources? The tickle was on his left leg now. He tried to detach Anthony from his left leg by pushing him with his right foot. He continued working but realized his focus was divided.

His deadline was 5:00 PM. Leaving time to reread the article for a final check, set it up with his heading information, and attach it to his email with a short note to Mr. Harris, Bradley figured he’d better be finished by 4:30 at the latest. It was probably nearing 4:00. Bradley couldn’t resist the urge to look down at his watch for the eighth time. “Yep,” he said, “3:48. Less than an hour to go and….okay, that’s it, Anthony,” he said resolutely. “You’re done for the day.” Bradley stood up. “I’m putting you away until I finish this article. You have no respect for my career. You want to eat well, but where do you expect me to find the money to feed you? If Harris likes this article, you could be fixed for life. But no, you want to play when I have to work, and you want to hide when I want to play.”

Bradley looked down realizing that the tickle was gone. And so was Anthony. “Oh, crap, Anthony,” Bradley said almost ready to cry. “Now I have to stop writing and look for you. But I know your hiding places. You want to go where it’s warm and cozy. You’re under the baseboard heating somewhere. Okay you can hide for a little while and then I’ll come looking for you with a nice frozen rat for your dinner.”