The Memoir

Writing one's own memoir is a daunting enough task – doing so without the ability to type makes the endeavor frustrating at best, excruciating at worst. Arthritis had long since stolen his ability to manipulate the tiny, plastic keys in front of him, and his failing eyesight did little to help the cause. His inability not only to write the words but also see them, was a torturous fate for a writer, akin to a musician losing his hearing, unable to lose himself in melodious song. No, he'd been left with no choice – if he were to write the Memoirs of James Allan Roberts, he would have to do so via dictation.

 

Mr. Roberts had grown cantankerous in recent years as his health faded much more quickly than he'd anticipated. What little comfort in life he still enjoyed came primarily from two sources: his boxer, Rufus, and a bottle of Johnny Walker. His lack of mobility prevented him on most days from even enjoying the grounds of the estate he'd work so hard to acquire and maintain. The notion that he could no longer work in his own gardens, and could only enjoy them if someone pushed him in his wheelchair through them, only added insult to injury. James Roberts was a proud man. Not an arrogant man, but a fiercely proud one.

 

"Good morning, Mr. Roberts,"  Maisey said cheerfully. "Would you like some more coffee?" she asked as she approached the tray on the credenza and poured herself a cup. James wanted to hate her. He'd driven away at least four other transcriptionists, male and female alike, before they'd even put four chapters down on paper. There was something about Maisey Mae Hopkins, though, that softened his otherwise brusque demeanor.

 

Born and raised in the heart of Georgia, Maisey Mae was every bit the southern belle you'd expect: Long, flowing blonde hair, petite figure, sparkling blue eyes, and a personality more effervescent than the sweet moscato Roberts would take from time to time in place of his standard whiskey. Her amiable persona was unbreakable. Even at his worst, she'd simply remark "bless your  heart, Mr. Roberts," and go on about her business. He'd tested her many a time, and each time she simply smiled on.

 

In his younger years he'd have pursued a girl like Maisey. He did, in fact, and chuckled to himself at the thought of Maisey's reaction when they came to that period of his life in their collaborative, creative process. By the time his nurse wheeled him to his desk, Maisey had already set up her stenographer's stand and laptop computer, ready to begin the day's drafting.

 

"Where did we leave off?" he asked, forcing the words through a slight cough.

 

Maisey suppressed a giggle. "The sorority at Wet Stone University. Did they seriously fight over you?"

 

Roberts glared. As with the writing of most memoirs, the memories that serve as source material tended to embellish themselves over time. For Roberts, though, it was the body that failed him, not the mind. His memories were about as pure as they could be. At least that was what he told himself.

 

He raised a gnarled finger in her direction. "You just keep your editorial commentary to yourself, missy."

 

Maisey giggled. "Yes, sir." The grin on her face, though, told he that she still didn't believe him. He couldn't help but smile.

 

"These are all true stories, my dear. Together they weave a most colorful tapestry of my life. Now are you ready to type?"

 

"I am indeed," she replied, still smiling.

 

And he began:

 

…I wasn't even supposed to have been there the third night, but I had been having such a good time I just couldn't bring myself to leave. My manager adored me. So, when I told her I was having car trouble and wouldn't be able to travel back until the following day, she didn't think twice, said "that's fine, we'll get someone to cover your shift," and that was the end of it. My friends smiled and high-fived. I easily succumbed to their peer pressure, but it was the mischievous, you-know-you-want-to kind of peer pressure that caused no harm. Those friends, they were my family. I am one of the last survivors among them, sadly, but our friendships live on in me, and in the occasional visits their children pay me from time to time. Then, though, those certainly were our days of days.

 

The night before I'd found myself in the arms a beautiful young girl whose name escaped my memory long ago. Her eyes, though, shone like pure emeralds in the moonlight. Those I remember fully to this day. We danced, we kissed, and I, at least, looked very much forward to sharing with her what I hoped would be a slightly more romantically eventful encounter now that I would be staying another night. Imagine my dismay when we all arrived at the bar only to find her in the arms of another.

 

I was a resilient young man then, much more so than I am now. It didn't take me long to find comfort elsewhere, and I spent my last night there in another's bed. She and I remain friends to this day, in fact, though we've not seen each other in some time.

 

It wasn't until weeks later, following that visit, that I learned of the turmoil my actions had caused. The two young women, you see, were sorority sisters. Apparently they weren't fond of each other to begin with, a frosty divide widened by the temporal proximity of my affection for each. From what I understand, their mutual disdain, exacerbated by my frivolity, nearly sent a chasm through the middle of the sorority to a point at which they considered disbanding the chapter. In a mere three days I'd managed to turn an entire collegiate Greek organization on its ear….

 

Maisey re-read the last few lines she'd just typed and snickered aloud. "So you almost broke up an entire sorority because you were horny?" she asked.

 

Roberts glared again, a glare that quickly dissipated into a smile, and then a hearty laugh. "Ms. Hopkins, I don't deal in such vulgarities. I prefer to think that I was simply, vigorously amorous." His euphemism caused her snicker to progress towards a chuckle, chortle, and then outright hysteria.  They shared the carefree moment until his cough reminded him that he could no longer exert himself, even to laugh, lest he experience a painful hacking fit. The nurse rushed to his aid with his oxygen, but he brushed her away angrily.

 

"Get away from me with that damn thing, woman! I'm coughing, not dying. When I'm ready to perish I will let you know."

 

The nurse rolled her eyes and acquiesced to his demand. Maisey noticed her shaking her head as she walked away and grinned again. Roberts was indeed a handful. Maisey, unlike the others, however, was able to see past his hardened façade to the kind, sweet, and loving man that resided somewhere inside. Though she didn't know it yet, as their work together progressed and he told more of his story, she'd see a side of him, an emotionally raw, soul-baring side of him, for which she'd be grossly unprepared. For a moment she frowned, knowing that there was a part of his tale that only she could contribute, and feared for his reaction when they arrived at that station. For the time being though, she typed away and smiled.

 

 

…to be continued….

 

 

© 2014 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.