The sailor is home from the sea, lean even bony, deeply bronzed, deeply lined, deeply bruised with a head full of distrusted memories. Walk/Don’t Walk – or is it Walk/Can’t Walk? – he’s shot the albatross (“I was only pretending”; in a sort of wail of guilt and bewilderment) and wears it like a negative of a life buoy round his bowed neck. An aide-memoire, a memento mori, an attitude of humble trust, barely able to raise his eyes to the ever chirpy Pinky and Perky prancing their folie à deux in a whirl of polystyrene granules – we thought this stage was guaranteed for five years . . .
Back on dry land, following the bandy-legged old sailor with that give-away rolling gait of his across the US of A in those far-off mythical 60s/70s, walking or more likely driving elbow on the door, the open roof, the blonde at his side, a half bottle of bourbon in his right hand. What’s that music on the radio? Dylan, Doors or the Dead?
We’ve never quite got the hang of this business of living. Should it be a mad rant through the decades? Should we believe in progress? Should we, like Gordon the Terrible, sulkily stump off to write books about what we got wrong? The new best seller: I got it all wrong – please forgive me. Subtitle: I thought I knew what I was doing.
Other best-seller titles might include:
I thought I would sort out your problems and make myself a million while I did it.
Share out the pain while I make all the gain.
We fucked up big time.
Walk/Don’t Walk.
Dreaming of a better life.
Choose the title – write the book – it could be:
Uncle Wally – the movie.