A Thing That Happened by Jeff Weddle

At the bar with the famous writer.

I don’t know him well,

but I do know him.

We’re drunk,

though he more so than I.

My buddy is on the other side

of the famous writer

and he’s drunk, too,

maybe the drunkest of us all,

though who’s to say?

The three of us mostly sit there quietly,

drinking our beer.  

I’m trying to be a writer, too,

with little success,

but I am trying.

I figure that working at it

will make the writing easier,

that I will finally learn something

that will make the words flow.

So, I ask the famous writer

if it gets easier after a while.

His shoulders shrink and he sighs.

 “No, man. It just gets harder.”

We keep drinking, the famous writer,

my buddy and I, mostly in silence.

A couple of years later, still in his forties,

the famous writer is dead of a heart attack.

My buddy lasted another twenty years

after that. He was trying to be a writer, too.

No, you’ve never heard of him.  

This was long ago, and I’m still here,

still trying to be a writer,

still with little success.

No, you’ve never heard of me.

I’m glad I knew my buddy,

and, can tell you that,

completely unknown,

he wrote well.

I’m glad I knew the famous writer, too,

and marvel at his ferocious talent

with the novel and the short story.

The man was a master.

That old bastard, Death,

steps in on his own schedule,

no matter what we do.

On balance, I suppose it’s better

to be a famous dead writer

than a dead writer

who remains unknown,

though the bottom line is the same.

I’m lucky

to have split the difference:

still here and playing with the word

in obscurity.

But I miss my buddy

and would have liked

to have had more to read

from the famous writer.

He really was great.

I guess that’s all, except for this:

everything is a blessing,

even the drunken nights,

even the small talent, even death.

We all end up where we should,

and if you and I ever find ourselves

on barstools together,

it will be fine,

though I will have no advice to offer,

even if you’re in the market.

I do know, however,

and with the weight of years,

that the famous writer was correct.

Everything just gets harder.

You can take that to the bank.

Okay, okay. Drink up.

That’s all.

Jeff Weddle is a poet and writer living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He won the 2007 Welty Prize for Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press, and has also received honors for his fiction and poetry. Jeff teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama.