Chapter 1 of "Blank"

a little novel by Matheau Moore:
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One: The Globe



I desperately need to find a pencil. Or any thing to write with really, I suppose.

There's that lesbian; I recognize her hair. But then again, I recognize all lesbian hair, no matter what the particular style, don't we all?

No, she's pontificating. Even considering the brief, knowing smile she shoots in my direction mid-word, I cannot bring myself to interrupt her when she's going on like this.

She's seated in the lowest of the private viewing boxes. Ensconced almost like a queen holding court and her small audience of five seems to be hanging on her each pronouncement with just enough feigned attention that, even were I to interrupt her (and even though the intimacy somehow inherent in the facial expression she just sent my way seems to indicate that she recognizes me too) she would almost certainly shush me kindly. A quick but half-hearted, and almost immediately forgotten, half-raised finger; the international symbol for “your call is very important to us, please hold.”

No, there are enough people milling about here, by the front of the stage, to find a more cooperative source of a pencil. Or anything to write with really, I suppose.

I have found the friendliest and most welcoming face attached to what is also the oldest and smallest woman in the room. Her tweed dress/suit ensemble comes pre-equipped with a large handbag that must surely contain the necessary instrument.

“May I borrow a pen?” I ask, apologetically?



She seems pleased I have asked, as if she were wondering exactly when someone would have a need that might make her feel useful. She motioned with a half raised finger as well, but it was accompanied by a different look – a smiling nonverbal “thank you for asking me, I will be right back with one.”

She immediately set off on her newfound mission but her initial sense of immediacy began to fade almost instantly and she began to wander about in a more and more aimless fashion until, turning to see me following her, she looked at me and said “Is there anything I can do for you sweetie?”

I had found the only other person in the room who needed a pen and paper to remember things more than I did and I needed to start moving quickly before I lost my thoughts again.

I passed through the door at the rear right of this odd little theater and entered the lounge area. She was sitting by the bar. She was the kind of woman who didn't “do” her hair or face. Young thirties, she was wearing a slightly oversized brown leather bomber jacket. It was ancient and would surely be worn at every opportunity until it simply died of exhaustion. It's soft cool surface beckoned me and I sur[rised myself by diving into it. Sitting down next to her I laid my face against the upper right arm of the bomber and a perfectly innocent and already fatigued pleading escaped my throat. “Is there any chance you have a pencil ...or anything to write with really?” my mantra repeated itself.

She responded to my rather unorthodox introduction with the slightly intrigued eyes and quizzical mouth that told me she was a bit wary but generally “OK” with our sudden acquaintance and that she even possibly had the sort of soul that might understand my true predicament.

“Certainly.”

The inside pocket of the bomber produced a cruel parody of a writing instrument. The tiny pencil one absentmindedly takes from the mini-golf place. My hand cramped in anticipation of the torture it could soon inflict but it was something, anything, to write with.

“...and maybe a piece of paper?”

She shot me a suspicious look and I realized immediately what a fool I must look and could see her withdraw at the notion that I was about to use all of this as some sort of pickup opportunity but then she looked me over. I in turn looked at my own preposterous outfit and understood why her cold suspicion quickly reabsorbed some of the more quizzical and bemused nature of her initial expression.

“...and why?” she asked, half still protecting herself and half enjoying the absurdity of it all.

“Have you ever done LSD?” suddenly popped out of my mouth.

A wide smile arose and she leaned a bit closer and examined my eyes.

“...and why?” she repeated exactly as before.

“Well,” I said, emboldened by the near instant sense of camaraderie my question had produced between us, “have you ever forgotten completely who you are or where you are and why?”

Not that I was high at all. Her probing eyes had told her the same thing. It was simply the best analogy I could come up with for what I was experiencing at the moment.

“Yes, been there mon frer.” she piped back.

“Well that's where I am right now, and the only thing I can think of to do to try to begin to fix things is to start to write everything down so I won't ever forget anything again.”

She produced a smallish, worn, generic “day-runner” type notebook from somewhere inside the bomber and handed it to me. It was partially full of notes and sketches and half crossed off to-do lists but there was still plenty of blank pages interspersed randomly between and the sight of the white lined pages almost made me feel lustful towards them.

“But it's... oh, no, I need to hold onto what I write down. I need something I can take with me.”

“I know.” she said. “Take it.”

“But promise you'll show me it next time we run into each other.” was her only precondition.