Writing a Story for You

[A 1991 story written in Terry Wolverton's writing group; about Reid Beitrusten, who died 2 December 1983.]

You’re dead, but you wanted to write stories. You were just about to get published, just about to start making it. So I’m writing a story for you, I started it in the laundromat, I went next door to buy a legal pad and a felt-tip pen and scribbled in front of the dryers. It won’t be the story you would have written, I’ll never know what that was, your mother took all your books and papers back to Florida, she wouldn’t give me any of them, they’ll molder in an attic somewhere.

When I get home, it’s after midnight, I type the scribbled pages into the computer, changing as I go along. When we met, that part’s easy, you were behind the bar, I was so confused by your smile, but happy, I didn’t know what to say. Page two. You never had a computer, the best ones were after your time, but you would have liked this one a lot. I got it the year after you died. Page four. The next morning, our breakfast date, you showed up early and caught me coming out of the shower, you kissed me, wet as I was, and it was two hours before we got to breakfast. Page seven. I want to show you how the printer works, show you how pretty the pages look when they’re done, how easy it all is. Your story will look very professional.

I begin to format the document, putting page numbers in the header, styles in the lead paragraph. What sort of styles would you have used? What would your voice have said, your slightly rough, resonant voice? That first morning, you told me about your favorite novels in Russian, and I thought, you look like the handsomest lifeguard on the beach. I’m writing this story for you, not for me, not for publication, not for people saying, Goodness, this is fascinating. It’s for you. I can print out this draft now, but it needs work. I’m trying to say something about your arms, the golden hairs and the broad gestures, I don’t know quite how to put it. I want this to be well written because you would have wanted it that way.

As though I would put any name on it but mine. Who am I fooling? Certainly not me, I know better. I can’t wait for people to tell me how good it is, how good I am. And I couldn’t possibly be fooling you, but I suppose you’ll forgive me, you always would. In the hospital, you were disfigured, bloated and in pain, but I couldn’t stop looking at you, you were so beautiful. Are you watching? Over my shoulder, seeing if I got it right. Seeing if I make myself look better, if I skip over the times when I stayed away, when I couldn’t deal with your sickness, my fear. I wonder if anyone will ask me about your name in the epigraph. Who was that? Oh, a friend of mine, someone who died.

Editing, a red pen with the printed pages. But I’m beginning to feel so strange, uncomfortable, almost afraid – what will you do when you see what I’ve made of you, what I’ve done to everything? The story is beginning to feel horrible, it’s as though I’m draining energy from you, taking it from your poor dead body. I wanted to bring you back to life, but that can’t be done, not any more. Who told me I have the right to write a story about you? The story is for you, it’s your story. It’s not for me. I’m not writing this to show off, to make people impressed. It’s for you. But it’s rotting, turning into fodder for a new anthology, garbage for some monthly magazine, I haven’t said anything right, it’s not right, not right at all.

I go back to the computer, push some keys.

REALLY ERASE THIS DOCUMENT?

Yes.

As the computer buzzes, I tear the pages in shreds, quickly, before I can think about it, and put the shreds in the trash can. I’m not quite crying, really more sniveling, and my stomach is hurting again, it always does these days. I can’t write the story without you, you shouldn’t have left me here, alone and scared, I can’t even see your face any more, and all that’s left of your voice is the words I used to describe it. I take all the trash cans, dump them into a plastic bag, and drag it out across the wet concrete, my white socks soaked and muddy, and I fling the bag away from me as though it burns, it burns.

[Los Angeles, 2/15-8/19/91]

Comments

[Pablo Alvarez]

Hi Paul, Terry Wolverton posted on your fb story link that I should read "Writing a Story for You." The writing you offer fuels me to keep writing. I'm writing my dissertation on Gil Cuadros, Laura Aguilar, Osa Hidalgo de La Riva, and queer Latinx folks who continue to be at the front lines of AIDS activism. The final image of the muddy soaked white socks and the flinging of trash bags caught my own words on fire. Thank you for offering this writing. I hope we can connect and stay connected. Terry tells me that you were in the writing workshop with Gil. I have often found or heard your name throughout my own writing and reading of Gil's work. We just celebrated the 25th anniversary of Gil's City of God. I would love to tell you about our celebrations regarding City. And I would love to share stories with you. Sending you love from Los Angeles. Sincerely, Pablo

[Paul]

Thank you, Pablo, we should be in contact now... I envy you your work! We'll talk. I also teach and write on AIDS and have often referred to Gil's work, so... Paul

[Andrew]

Paul - visceral, powerful words. Reid sounds beautiful. I can read your love and passion. Thank you, Brother.

[Brittany]

I'm Reid's niece. I love seeing his life live on in your writing. I search his name on occasion, he died less than a year after I was born, and would love to connect with you. Please email me at [email].

[Kim T. MacDermotRoe]

Hi Paul,

I was a classmate and friend of Reid’s at Princeton. Like Brittany, I sometimes search for Reid on the internet and I was very pleased to find your piece.

I met Reid when he was working at the circulation desk of Princeton’s Firestone Library. We talked about Reid’s interest in Russian literature and how in his translation exercises he had to get beyond mere transliteration. The trick, he said, was to find the right English words that would preserve the Russian author’s sentiment.

The chance meeting led to a friendship and we would get together from time to time. Reid was charming, funny and as beautiful on the inside as on the outside. I enjoyed his company very much. Knowing Reid was one of my best memories of college.

I tried to stay in contact after graduation, but our directions were so different that we lost touch. I remained on the East Coast and became a New Yorker while Reid went West.

In recent years, I have become aware of two important facets of our life experience. First, everyone we meet we were meant to meet. And second, time is not linear. So I look forward to seeing Reid again.

Sincerely,

Kimmy