Landslide

Colin Bennett

I have to work on my second novel today.

It’s been a month or two, at least, since I picked it up. The first novel, a semi-autobiographical number about growing up in the Milwaukee suburbs, goes over well enough. But it’s not paying any bills.

Still, being published makes me something of a local celebrity. They have a big stack of copies of my book in the lobby of the library under “local authors.” I think I’m the only one that’s actually local. It’s not on any bestseller lists, but it gets a mention in the Journal-Sentinel. Not a review, just a mention. Still, it’s a nice little story. This new one’s going to be different.

My laptop’s on the dining room table, and my son’s in the living room. He’s born about the same day my book’s published. The book is dedicated to the man he’s going to be. We always want our sons to be better than us.

The message is still blinking on my laptop. I shouldn’t look at it. I know it’s Nick again-he’s been messaging me since work last night. My novel’s still not successful enough for me to live off, so I bartend in the meantime. It’s not ideal, but we need the cash.

“Hey man, I know you’re living a ‘crazy life’ now-hahaha, aren’t we all?”

He’s drunk, probably. Of all the old gang, Nick is the only one that still calls it partying. I read the message a few times, typing and deleting a response while I smoke on my break. I try to ignore it, but my phone keeps buzzing in my pocket the whole night. I know where he’s headed.

I get home around one that night. My wife (the other person my novel is dedicated to) is asleep on the couch while my boy sleeps in the crib. His snoring lights up the baby monitor, all the way to the last red light. I can’t sleep without hearing it anymore, but my wife can. She wakes up when I get in. I’m about to open the laptop and start writing, but we get to talking instead. I’m interested in having sex, but she says tonight’s not the night.

I look at my phone. There’s about nine messages waiting for me.

“Did I tell you I like your book? It’s crazy man, like the old days. I knew you were going to be big. Everyone in school did.”

“Hey man do you remember when we did the TV show for the school? Do you have the tapes? The stuff Kevin and I did was so good!”

“I miss Kev, man. Don’t you? Anyways I hope you’re doing good. You’re probably too busy for ‘reminiscing’. Catch up with you later. Let’s party some time – like the old days.”

I try not to think about Nick or the old days as I fall asleep. But when I wake up, Nick’s still there.

“Hey remember Ms. P’s class? She played ‘Landslide’ on the stereo and she cried. I felt bad but it was funny.”

Ms. P was our AP Lit teacher. She’s still there, I think. She’s pale and graceful and her legs are endless. She loves Shakespeare and she’s even had some poems published. Ms. P’s full name is Przewzonik, some Polish bastardization for “Carrier.” She told me about it after school, when she helped me tighten my writing. She read me a lot of poems. Her voice was sweet, and soft. Many afternoons as a teenager I’d come to the thought of her voice saying my name. I’d never tell her, but she’s a character in my book-the older woman who teaches our narrator how to fuck, and love, and write like he means it.

But Nick’s the one who actually tried to fuck her. He asked her out on a date when he turned eighteen. He’s always been bold like that. Like always, I apologized for him. Nick never got in trouble for it.

I see her once, two years after leaving high school. She’s still pretty, but paler somehow. I give her a hug and tell her about my writing. She says she misses me. And Nick. And Kevin. I ask her if she’s seen Nick and she says not lately. Nick’s changed, she says. We all have since then, I tell her.

This is where Nick’s going.

“I miss Kev, man. I wish you would have dedicated the book to him. You told me you would, remember?”

I do remember the conversation. Nick’s sitting on my doorstep when I get home. I’m a year out of school and almost done with my first draft. He hasn’t had a real job in years. He’s been drinking, and crying. I don’t know which came first.

“I can’t even remember why we did it,” he says, sobbing into my chest.

In my book they both die. In real life, I’m watching when they jump from my third floor balcony to the second. I can see that Nick makes it. But just barely. I can’t see Kevin, but I know he doesn’t. I never look down.

Nick’s recovery takes months. I see him a lot at first, but eventually I stop coming to the hospital. Then I stop seeing him altogether. I’m hoping he’ll start to get better, stop drinking maybe. He never really does either.

“You were the one,” he says after collapsing into my arms that night, only half because of the sadness. “Kev knew. We all did.”

He leaves that morning without saying goodbye. It’s been two years since.

“Hey Nick,” I finally reply, “It’s been fun to reminisce, but I’m slammed. Talk later?”

“No worries – the next book will be even better!”

“I hope so,” I reply.

“I was thinking about that time Ms. P played ‘Landslide’ in class. So I listened to it again today.”

“Yeah?”

“I cried, too.”

© 2019 Colin Bennett

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Colin Bennett is a former journalist and current Stay-At-Home Dad. He writes flash, fiction, personal essays on fatherhood, and occasionally poetry. His essays have been featured on Sammiches and Psych Meds and previous fiction work has been featured in the Rumblefish Press Quarterly (RIP). He lives in Milwaukee with his wife and two young sons.