Writers by nature tend to be optimists. They have to be, in order to dodge the steady stream of curveballs served up by the Universal Lefty.
Indeed, optimism, resilience and dogged determination clothed in a tough hippo hide is the hallmark of writers who have gallantly prevailed against harrowing odds.
Case in point: My great and good friend and mentor, Eddie Salinski is a master of turning lemons into a popular summertime refreshment.
Some time back Eddie called me.
“Guess what,” he said. “I got me a horse. A racehorse, I’m thinking.”
Eddie exclaimed that this horse of his was in the backyard wrestling with a bundle of hay at that very moment. He filled me in with the details:
“It’s black and white with a funny mane. Real big dude, too. Mean as hell. Bites like a banshee but runs like its ass in on fire. Bought it a couple months back from a couple of gypsies who stopped by my trailer to fix the roof.”
I decided right then I had to drop everything and run over and see this outstanding animal.
Eddie was waiting for me as I pulled into his dirt drive way. He took me ‘round back and threw open the doors of his shed. Standing there, fiery eyes, staring me down, was his “race horse.”
“Be careful,” Eddie said. “Don’t move around too much. He can get real rambunctious all of a sudden.”
The animal with the blazing eyeballs stood tall, muscles rippling under its black and white coat. Stripes. What the hell is this, looking at me like I’m an appetizer?
I caught my breath and whispered, “Geez, Eddie, that’s no horse. You got yourself a darn zebra.”
Eddie scratched his head. “Be damned,” he mused. “Sure looks like a horse to me.”
“Damdest thing I’ve ever seen. What in the world are you going to do with it?” I whispered as the great beast began pawing the air, flecks of slobber spraying hither and yon..
“Hell, I’m going to keep it.”
I shook my head as if he were a mental case.
“Listen here,” he said. “This old boy won the third race at Del Mar last Saturday. Going to run him again soon as I find a jockey who doesn’t taste good to him.”
Eddie’s “race horse” gave out a loud kind-of-whinny of agreement and kicked a big hole in the side of the aging shed.
Eddie shut the door and grinned: I got a good feeling ‘bout this dude,” he said.
That’s what I mean about optimists. The Eddie Salinski’s of this world make do with what they have—no matter what fortune brings their way. I predict Eddie and his new friend will get along just fine, stripes or no stripes.
And he’ll probably have the makings of another really good book to boot.
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