The Prosaic Journal of an Aspiring Writer
by
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10-7-97 I bought this notebook for my Creative Writing class. Our assignment is to keep a journal for the semester. The notebook cost $1.79. That’s a small price to pay to record my thoughts for eternity. 10-8-97 I was late for Economics class. (My second year of college—you’d think I’d know not to schedule classes at 8am.) The first empty seat that I spotted was in the back corner of the room. When I sat down, the chick next to me slid her desk a few inches away. Do I have some sort of body odor that I’m not aware of? 10-9-97 Grandma turned 77 today. We celebrated by eating spaghetti. Grandma dropped sauce on her nightgown. The tomato stain covered up the spot of tea she had spilled at lunch. Mom wiped her down and said that she’d change her into a clean one tomorrow. We bought her two new gowns for her birthday. David and Jasmine both called to wish Grandma happy birthday. Phone calls are enough these days. When Mom answered the phone, she talked with David for a minute, asked how everyone was. (He’s engaged now.) But when Jasmine called, Mom didn’t say anything. She just handed the phone to Grandma. We waited for Brian to call, but he never did. He hasn’t talked to her since Mother’s Day. 10-10-97 I bought a new deodorant. Right Guard “Manly Musk.” Maybe that will help. 10-11-97 I almost died today. Seriously. It’s not my teen lingo talking. (“This hot chick said hi to me, and I, like, almost died. I was, like, oh my god!”) Dad, Lori, and I videotaped a high school football game. On the ride home, we approached a bend in the road with a double-solid line. A woman driving a red Grand Am starts to pass us just as an on-coming car appears around the bend. I can still see the faces of the people in that car, eyes furrowed with fear, lips wide with screams. If Dad hadn’t slammed the brakes and allowed the Grand Am to veer in front of us, then either the cars would’ve collided head-on, or she would’ve collided with us trying to avoid the accident. Either way, someone would be dead. I learned in my Driver’s Ed class that it takes ¾ of a second reaction time to step on the brake. That’s the difference between life and death—¾ of a second. Once the shock of the moment had passed, Dad accelerated to catch the Grand Am as it sped down the road. He drove up behind her and wailed on his horn. Lori cautioned him to slow down. “You’re being as foolish as she is.” “If I don’t do something,” Dad roared, “the fact that she almost killed people will pass like nothing.” He honked the horn repeatedly, pointed to the side of the road, and yelled for her to pull over. She looked in her rearview mirror and raised an innocent hand. Dad persisted. For two miles, he tailgated and honked his horn until she finally pulled over. Dad leapt from the car and stomped to hers. “Are you crazy?! You could’ve killed me!” The woman got out of her car, hands held open. “What did I do?” Dad recounted the incident through yells. “I was trying to catch up with my friend,” she explained. “Stupid!” Dad said. “I’ve got my family with me! You could’ve killed my family!” He stomped back to us, threatening to call the police. She followed him, hands shaking as she grabbed at her face. “Please don’t. I’m sorry.” She stepped toward the car. “Where are you going?” Dad held his arms out to stop her. “I want to apologize to your family.” She stuck her head in the window. Lori extended a flat hand toward her, rebuffing her apologies. The woman looked at me. She was young, in her early twenties, straight dark hair, glasses. Her eyes were teary. “Are you okay?” I’m not sure if I shook my head or nodded. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen my dad so angry. Red puffy cheeks jumping from beneath his bifocals, lips spitting on his beard, a finger thrusting in the air with each “you” he expired. His violent reaction scared me more than her reckless driving. No, I was not okay. 10-12-97 When Dad dropped me off, he touched my arm before I got out of the car. “About yesterday,” he said, “don’t ever do what that lady did.” I thought he was going to caution me about driving carefully and respecting the rules of the road. “If another driver wants you to pull over, don’t ever do it. He could be crazy. You never know.” 10-13-97 I went to Jamie’s birthday party. Aunt Deb ordered four pizzas from Little Caesar’s, where everything is bigger. The Three Idiots work there. One of them, Wanda, has big breasts—36DD. (I saw her bra in the bathroom on the day we went swimming at Katie’s house. And, yes, I touched it.) Wanda hates their new slogan, because when she greets customers, she has to say, “Welcome to Little Caesar’s, where bigger is better.” And then she gets looks and laughs from immature guys like me. (Even as I write about it, I’m giggling.) On one of the pizzas, Aunt Deb ordered black olives. She’s a health nut. While Phil paid the delivery guy, Aunt Deb inspected the pizzas and didn’t see any olives. She sent the delivery guy away with the plain cheese pizza and told him to bring her one with olives. She wanted Phil to pay for only three of the pizzas, but he paid the entire bill. “He’ll be back with the other one.” And he did come back. With another plain cheese. He drove away before Aunt Deb could stop him. I laughed and finished my first slice of cheese pizza. Aunt Deb reached for the phone to call Little Caesar’s and complain. Phil resolved the issue by retrieving a can of sliced olives from the cupboard. He artfully distributed the black rings on the pizza. I grabbed a second slice before he soiled it with the vile vegetable. (Are olives vegetables?) Aunt Deb was satisfied with the solution, but she kept mumbling under her breath about boycotting Little Caesar’s. “But at Little Caesar’s bigger is better,” I said. And then I giggled and giggled, and Aunt Deb looked at me like I was crazy. Tell me who’s crazy: me, for liking big breasts, or Aunt Deb, for liking olives on pizza?
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About the Book
During his sophomore year at college, Charlie is assigned to keep a journal. He can’t imagine finding something to write about every day. After all, his life isn’t very exciting. He goes to class in the morning, then drives home to make lunch for Grandma. She’s been living with Charlie and his mother for over a year now. The rest of the family gave up on her. Charlie’s trying not to, but it’s hard to be optimistic when she’s still using a commode.
Written in journal entries, The Prosaic Journal of an Aspiring Writer, tells the story of Charlie’s confrontation with cancer. One year removed from chemotherapy, Grandma struggles to regain her strength. Charlie and his mother walk beside her. They make her meals and give her baths. They endure the daily burden with the hope of one day rediscovering the pleasures of dinner at Grandma’s house. Charlie’s journal becomes his savior, a place to vent his frustrations. Comfort lies not only in his purging of raw emotion but also in the humorous observations he extracts from his daily routine. Were it not for his ability to laugh, Charlie might have given up a long time ago.
About the Author
Erik Gagnon grew up in Beekmantown, New York, less than ten miles north of Plattsburgh. He graduated from SUNY Plattsburgh with a degree in English/Writing. Through four years of college, he balanced his studies with his duties as a grandson to Catherine Wilson. In the summer of 2002, Erik met Sarah Baumgarten while working at Wal-Mart. Two years later, they married and relocated to Cohoes, New York, less than ten miles north of Albany. They have one son, Ethan. Erik works as a manager at Target.