He saw her, she couldn’t have known it, but he was eyeing her the entire time. His giant sunglasses, the kind old people wear after cataract surgery, disguised his intent. Or course, he never had any such surgery, but Buford Lister was always ready to take any advantage, any edge, he could muster.
She’s got to be a reporter. No other possible reason for a beautiful woman to keep looking in my direction. Definitely a reporter. Damn, she is beautiful. Oh no, I recognize her now. Someone knew what they were doing when they sent her my way. C’mon man, have a little self-respect, don’t give her a nod or wave her over. Let her know immediately that she is wasting her time.
She got up, sexily walked toward her mark, and sat down beside him.
Author’s Note: Stephen King wrote a fantastic book on how to write. I have never read one of his novels (I am not a big horror guy), but I have read some of his shorter stuff. He is an excellent writer, and the book he wrote, called On Writing, is required reading for anyone who feels the need to waste lots of time at a keyboard. One of the things that King says is that adverbs are to be avoided at all costs. Why? Ah, I should make you read the book to find the answer to that question, but I know no one reading this will, so I will spit it out. If you are using adverbs, there is a good chance you are “telling” instead of “showing,” and any writer knows that tends to be bad. Oddly enough, the one adverb King did make an exception for is “sexily.” You know, I was there and let me tell you King was right. I mean damn…really…DAMN!
“You must be Buford Lister, my name is Cindy Carlson.”
She extended her hand, and our hero didn’t react at all. After a few awkward seconds, he let out an exaggerated yawn.
“Well, they did tell me you are difficult. Still, I thought you would at least speak to me. I guess I was wrong.”
As she got up to leave, her yoga pants undulated in an unexpected way. The movements reminded the old man of a time and place long gone. This woman, this reporter, brought back a flood of memories. It was instantaneous. Every thought was unwelcome. The worst part is that he knew that she was only using him. Her only objective was getting her assignment done. After a bit, Buford Lister decided he didn’t much care.
“You know, the only reason I am letting you sit back down is that you remind me of someone. A woman I knew a long, long time ago.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting… It’s not your wife that passed away decades ago, is it?”
Buford Lister watched her as she reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a copy of The Lister Affair. She immediately opened it to a picture near the middle.
“So, should I tell you how often I hear that I strongly resemble Susan Lister?”
All the old man could do was shake his head and expel a small sigh.
“So, what is it you want with me? Do you wish to interview me about that large piece of trash you are holding? Good luck with that young lady, you are going to need it.”
“Do you mind if I turn on my tape recorder?” she asked as she pulled it out of her black bag. She waved it in front of his face for effect. It didn’t work.
“You know, it is getting late, I think I’ll head home before it gets dark.”
“Uh, it is around noon. Won’t be dark for a long time yet.”
“Yeah, well it is dusk somewhere, so I better be moving along.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
Buford Lister threw his arms up in the air and shrugged his shoulders. She hurried to his side and matched his cadence.
“We want to do a cover piece on you. I just want to ask you a series of open-ended questions and let you take the interview in any direction you want. We will also give you final say over what does and does not go to print. How does that sound?”
“Not interested. Not even a little.”
“You don’t even know which publication I work for. How can you turn me down if you don’t know what the project is all about?”
“I get 50 calls and 50 emails every day. Every person has an incredible offer for me: poker magazines, science websites, the big networks asking about a sitdown with some star reporter. I am telling you what I tell each of them. No.”
“Fine. Well, I guess I made a long trip for nothing.”
“Sure looks like it.”
As she started to walk faster, Buford Lister slowed down to get a better view. He was glad he was too old to be suckered in by a beautiful woman. It was liberating in a fairly profound way. Of course, that didn’t mean that he didn’t want to watch as she made her getaway.
After she disappeared around a corner, Buford Lister walked into one of his haunts, a small cafe that was usually empty. He had no idea how the place stayed in business. He took his usual table in the back, retrieved a notebook from his backpack, and began to write.
This is what he wrote…
I have always said that democracy is an experiment; The United States of America is an experiment, a big and important one. The experiment is failing. I am concerned.
In America, the divisions between us are now much stronger than what unites us. The tone is nasty, and the mood is nastier. Apparently, reasonable people can’t disagree anymore. People who hold different beliefs are simpletons at best, and Un-American at worst.
When I was a kid, my teachers, such as they were, constantly told my classmates and me that America was a melting pot. That was an absolute lie. This country was never a melting pot. It appears to me that people choose to live with people who look like them and think like them. They want the others to stay away, to keep to their part of town. Is this simply human nature? Maybe. I hope not but maybe.
I am writing this because Cindy Carlson, the reporter (some would say the fascist, right-wing, racist), approached me in a park today. I was out for a walk and sat down to take in the scenery. There wasn’t a lot going on, no kids playing, and just a lone runner making his way down a trail. That is where she found me, at my favorite bench overlooking the lake.
Why would she want to talk to me? I really don’t know. She had a copy of that damn book, the one that is making my life even more miserable than it was before. I am sure she brought it because she wanted to make sure I knew what a strong resemblance she has to my long-dead wife. Did she think I am too old to remember what Susan looked like? Did she think I didn’t know about the damn doppelganger effect? All I know is I was floored the first time I saw Cindy Carlson on TV. I thought I was looking at a damn ghost.
Misty, the only person working at the cafe, brought a large beer to Buford Lister’s table. She didn’t bother placing it on the coaster only a few inches away.
“Your sandwich will be done in a minute.”
Buford Lister nodded his approval and returned to his notebook.
I am too old to talk about things that happened a lifetime ago. When did all that stuff happen? 50, 60 years ago? I buried that period of my life when I buried Susan. I want to use the time I have left more constructively. I am not going to waste my time looking through the rearview mirror. I am going to spend my remaining days with my eyes glued to the windshield.
If you want to interview me about the direction this country is taking, then you can email me. If you want to ask me about the state of science and mathematics in a country that has rejected rationality, then send your questions, and I will reply with my typed answers. We will not be meeting in person.
If you ask me anything about the events in The Lister Affair, I will end the email thread immediately.
Buford Lister took his cell phone from his backpack. He took pictures of the notebook pages he had scribbled on and immediately sent them to Cindy Carlson. Funny how this old man who had seen it all and been through the pit of hell and back already had her in his contacts.
