My former imaginary assistant Amanda calls me, scared.

"You told me I would be fine. You said I would find something right away. You said there were jobs everywhere. You promised me everything would be ok."

"Amanda, I--"

"You're a liar! Lies, lies, lies. You suck!"

"Amanda, calm down. Just...look, just stop that whimpering noise."

"Oh you want to hear whimpering? I'll give you whimpering."

Amanda lets out a hideous yowl. I hold the phone a few feet away from my head.

"What do I do?" she says. "Who am I without someone to write about me? Who am I if I don't inspire?"

"You can be fine by yourself," I say. "You can be whole and real without people looking at you or talking about you. You don't need any of us jackass writers to keep you going."

"I can't. I can't!"

I imagine her stomping her knee-high leather boot clad leg. I imagine her eyeliner smearing and dripping. I know her frustration. I have been there before. It is difficult to make the transition from a muse to an artist. For years I dated boys in bands, artists, writers, brilliant boys who were happy that I understood what they were talking about but had no interest in understanding me. I know where this is going.

"He dumped you huh?" I say softly.

"I don't like that word."

"What word?"

"Dumped."

"What word would you prefer I use?"

"Oh fuck you writers and your word choices."

"Amanda...I'm sorry."

There's silence for a minute. She's biting her lip. She's feeling her pride burn at the base of her spine and then drift up slowly to the top of her shapely shoulders. There are freckles on her shoulders, a spray of light brown freckles. I've seen them before.

"It's cold out there right now. No one is hiring. That's all I called to say. Do you know anyone? Is there anyone looking?" She is so quiet.

"I'll check around," I say. "I'll see what I can do."

"Well, thank you."

"He's not worth it," I say. "He's just a boy, a dumb, selfish boy, who might have made you feel good and needed and loved for a minute, but that's all it was, a minute, and that's all he is -- dumb and selfish."

"But he was my dumb and selfish boy," she chokes.

"You don't want a boy," I say. "You want a man."

"I, uh, I gotta go."

"Go. But call me. And I'll check around."

"Thank you."

I hang up the phone. I shake my head. I hate him for her even though I love him very much. I hate it when I'm right.

archives | w-w home | mail