Let it be said up front that there are only two things in this world which drive a man to write: the hope of fucking someone you want, and the misery of fucking all the others. I know this because Henry McIntyre once told me so. And that makes it true.
It was a cold December evening at approximately seven o’clock and I was sitting in Bentley’s trying to drink away my first broken heart, when a man in black slacks, a white shirt, and an unbuttoned overcoat strolled in as though he were arriving from somewhere other than the outside. He stood in the middle of the bar and looked around. Very quickly the place went silent, and I heard him speak for the first time:
excuse me miss,
but can i have another?
because it’s been seven lifetimes
since i last saw my lover,
and now i’m afraid
she’s turned into her mother.
The place erupted with laughter, and Mr. McIntyre threw his coat and hat on the rack in the far corner, before sitting down to once again drink for free.
The bartender slid a cold one in his direction,
“You’ve done it again Henry my boy, I don’t know how you do it!”
“I do it well,” he smiled.
“Jesus if you aren’t an arrogant bastard.”
“I hate when people mistake my genius for arrogance,” Henry winked, and I took notice.
I knew I had to talk to him at that point, but couldn’t figure out how, so I just kept looking over, and finally he said in a loud boisterous voice,
“Young curious man, come sit and drink with me; let us talk boldly of your illusions, of all the things you think you’ll be.”
So I did, and I somewhat nervously spoke,
“I’m going to be a writer.”
“The world has enough writers,” he said.
“Yes, but I’m going to be original.”
“Well, that’s original,” he smiled, “looks like you’re off to a great start.”