I got good feedback at long last from an old friend. This is the genius of Facebook. I don’t know if Zuckerberg (say, doesn’t that sort of read “sugar mountain?”) had in mind the idea that old friendships – really really old friendships – might be extended as if never ended. That’s what happened, though. Not only is it true that every one of my former lovers, endlessly chased, and formerly chaste candidates as lovers, lovers that switched from heterodox to unorthodox, are on Facebook within a mouse click of consultation, but so, too, are my oldest friends from elementary school. Jesus. Elementary school! Zuckerberg, what hath you wrought?

This particular old friend, who I first met as I stood terrified in line at Brookview school, on the first day of class, having gotten totally lost on the way, trying to follow the secret path that the older kids took, traversed the same path I did as the years unwound. We played music together before we learned to drive. We banged babes and bragged about it, seldom diverging more than a few centimeters from our trajectory. He chose the word game and I the music muse when it came to formal education. He ended up with the Masters in English that I should possess, and I the music degree that he should have. He’s played in bars, as have I. He’s been published in the literary reviews, as I have not. The last time we got together face to face, we were sharing a most entertaining woman at my parents’ cabin in Virginia, though not in the same way on the same night. Virginia is for lovers.

So I sent him my latest short story for a casual read. I forgot that for a professional word person, casual reading is not possible. He got back into the old editor’s saddle, printed my scant five thousand words out in hard copy and settled in with editors pencil. He corrected the boo-boos that I had made, in his estimation, that would prompt the junior copy editor or the intern to toss my piece from the slush to reject. Then, he reminded me of our age and long friendship. He sighed that he did too much work gratis. He lamented the necessity of still playing in bars to make ends meet. I felt guilty. He was so right about all of it; his edits were superb. The rationale behind them suggested a level of thinking about the writer’s craft that I have not, by education, been let in on. Atmosphere? Empathetical approach? Say wha? See, that MFA in English gets my old friend a leg up on literature. Does my BM get me the same leg up on counterpoint? It hasn’t helped me retain Springsteen’s lyrics or changes, let me tell you. I’m an idiot is the obvious lesson in this exchange. But wait…

I have a day job. I think my old friend is living on the trust provided by his deceased father. He’s in the bars doing the songs to make ends meet. I said that, and I repeat it. His trust will go on endlessly, but the duration of my day job is dicey. It has never been stable from the moment I moved out here. Over the long duration of it, I have fretted endlessly. At the moment, the state government that employs me can’t pay its bills. They’ve raised our taxes and failed to make insurance payments. I am paying out of pocket for medical, waiting for the state to reimburse. That’s the fact of the matter, and they are also making noises about reneging on the promised retirement payments. The pension is ‘unfunded.’ They spent the money on something else: themselves. They took the money and ran. Furthermore, the unethical elected officials drafted and passed diabolical ethics legislation that forces me to track and report my activities day to day regarding my performance of state business, and to report annually every dime I make that the state does not provide. I do it. I hate it. I resent it. Most importantly, there remains the probability, eternal, that I will lose the day job, and will never see a dime of that which I have payed in to the retirement fund. Somebody in Springfield is driving around in a new luxury car. So I need to do something else.

What have I got? I’m not going to be playing in the bars. I would have thought my old friend to be better at music than I am, and I would have thought myself the better writer. We have educated ourselves to have corrected, maybe even reversed, the discrepancy. I do not deny the bar musician skill set. No, no, no, not at all. I certainly do not deny the mastery imputed by a Masters in English. So I replied to the editorial email with a query about pricing for editorial work. Here’s the beauty part: my old friend, acknowledging the old friendship, proposed that I hire him to lead me through a refresher course on the art of the short story. He proposed a week long course involving reading and writing exercises. An MFA this is not. Worthwhile? Fun? Absolutely. I wonder how much it will set me back. I have so much going to utter hell around here. My car… do I arm up and buy the tools for major engine work? Or pop for a mechanic? Or go into hock for a newer/different car? This old house is not getting any newer. Medical, mentioned above. Put that off? Fiction writing is a gamble. Perhaps this is not such a good idea. But I am very tempted. I can no longer tell which temptation is the dangerous one. To be, or not to be? What kind of stupid question is that?