Free Fridays at Enrico's by Don Carpenter Page B

just in time to save him from law school. He finished his B.A. at Lewis & Clark and spent a couple of years skiing, first at Timberline, then on to Aspen and the ski patrol, where he was also a member of the TorchTeam, holding a flaming torch as he and the other patrollers performed their nightly ceremonial, the Descent of Fire. He took a lot of notes for a novel about the ski patrol. He’d known for years he wanted to be a writer, and he made sure to do a little writing every morning. His trust fund gave him a little over a hundred dollars per month. It wasn’t great but it was a base. It took the major worry out of life, left him free to travel, to look around, to meet girls, to make friends.
    But instead of being a happy ski bum, Dick was miserable. It was a capacity of his, to be unhappy for no reason. Maybe that was why he saw himself as a writer. There was a famous novelist living in Aspen, Leo Norris, who’d written three best-sellers, big fat books Dick could hardly work his way through, but they’d made old Norris rich and famous, and Dick would always pay attention when Norris came around. He had a big spread outside town with a steady stream of glamorous visitors. When he came to town to party he was always surrounded by beautiful people, although he himself was a little gnome with fierce red eyebrows and voice that could slice bacon. The first thing Dick noticed about Leo Norris was how unhappy he seemed, how unsatisfied with all the things that should have made him happy. Dick once ran into Norris at the little grocery next to the Aspen Lodge. They were both buying instant coffee, and both wanted the last jar of Folger’s. Dick actually had it in his hand when Leo Norris pushed his angry face into his and all but snarled, “I was just about to reach for that.”
    Dick’s first thought was tough titty , but he didn’t say it. The man’s rudeness was shocking, even to a member of the ski patrol. He clearly wanted Dick to give him the jar and take some lesser brand for himself. He probably knew that Dick knew who he was, and was hoping his fame and wealth would entitle him to the Folger’s. But it was a cold morning, Dick had a slight hangover, and there was a nice girl waiting in his bed.
    â€œBetter luck next time,” he said to Leo Norris, and was amused to see the famous writer actually bite his lip in frustration. “Oh, hell, take it,” Dick said, and handed over the jar. He made a mental note not to become an asshole.
    Eventually Dick grew tired of ski bum talk. He burned his notes for a novel and returned to Portland, found the perfect bachelor’s pad, and settled into learning to write. He was an orderly person, and knew that the best way to succeed was to work hard and be thorough. He kept records of his expenditures, which were few. Being a writer cost almost nothing: typewriter, twenty-five dollars, a nice little used Smith Corona portable; paper, a dollar a ream, plus carbon paper and newsprint for second sheets; manila envelopes and stamps; and that was about it. He was in business.
    Of course there were all kinds of writing. He wanted to try them all, but the important thing was to get some short stories written, to break through the publication barrier, to get paid for his work. Then branch out. He read all kinds of magazines, looking for ideas. Read mystery stories, science fiction, romance, straight fiction, everything from the Saturday Evening Post to Rogue . When he found a story that appealed to him, he’d sit down and doggedly retype it, learning the construction, learning the tricks. And every morning he’d get up, drink two cups of coffee, read the Daily Oregonian , then sit down at his shiny black typewriter, crack his knuckles, and write at least a thousand words. Seven days a week, no matter who stayed overnight, or how he felt, or whether it was a holiday. If there was a girl in the apartment, he’d explain to her