My Dinner with Billy Shakes (based on My Dinner with Andre)
Charlie Brown arrived at the restaurant
carrying a yellow legal pad.
Shakespeare was already
at the table, examining the wine list as though somebody had murdered his lead
character somewhere between the cabernet and the merlot.
“Rough day?” Charlie asked.
“Life’s but a walking
shadow.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
The waitress appeared.
“Can I start you gentlemen with something?”
“A little hope,” said Charlie Brown.
“Something to quiet the sound and fury,”
said Shakespeare.
She nodded. “Two bourbons for the playwright
and the bald kid with the big head..”
Charlie opened his legal pad.
“I’ve been trying to
figure something out. I keep hoping yesterday will get better.”
Shakespeare leaned back.
“All our yesterdays
have lighted fools the way to dusty death.”
Charlie studied him.
“Do you ever just say,
‘Yeah, that sucks balls’?”
The waitress returned
with their drinks. Shakespeare raised his glass and began, “Tomorrow, and
tomorrow, and tomorrow—”
“Kitchen closes at nine,” she said.
That settled him down.
Charlie explained about
Lucy and the football. Every time, she promised to hold it. Every time, he trusted
her. Every time, he landed flat on his ass.
Shakespeare listened carefully.
“You could stop running
at the ball.”
“That seems obvious when somebody else
says it.”
“Most wisdom does.”
Charlie took a drink.
“What bothers me is the
story afterward. Lucy goes home while I lie there thinking about what it means.
By bedtime, missing a football has become proof that my whole life is a
failure.”
Shakespeare lowered the menu.
“I may have contributed
to that sort of thinking.”
“You think?”
“I have written a
considerable number of people having one bad evening and killing half the
county.”
They ordered dinner.
Charlie wanted a
hamburger. Shakespeare requested something worthy of a king.
“Burger with an egg,”
said the waitress.
“Splendid choice my lady.”
For a while, they ate
quietly. Then Charlie asked why Shakespeare’s people always made such a mess of
things.
“Pride, fear, jealousy. They become
convinced they know how the story must end.”
“Lucy says I’ll never learn.”
“Lucy charges five
cents for advice and maintains a profitable arrangement with a football. I
would examine her interests.”
Charlie smiled.
It was a small smile,
but Shakespeare noticed. Writers notice things. Occasionally even the check.
“Tell me something good,” he said.
Charlie thought.
“My dog is glad to see me.”
“There. Begin with
that.”
“He’s also convinced he’s a flying ace.”
“I made a forest walk
toward a castle. Your dog seems reasonable.”
Charlie looked down at
his legal pad. He had written Yesterday at the top and filled most of
the page with complaints.
He turned to a fresh
sheet.
“What if I’m telling the story too soon?”
Shakespeare put down
his fork.
“Go on.”
“Well, yesterday I was
the idiot who trusted Lucy. Today I’m the idiot who understands the arrangement
a little better. Maybe tomorrow I will invite somebody else to hold the
football.”
“Excellent.”
“Maybe I’ll just go for
a walk.”
“Even better. Fewer
medical expenses.”
The waitress cleared their plates.
“Dessert?”
Charlie asked for apple
pie. Shakespeare said he was full.
She brought two forks
anyway. She had heard that story before.
Over pie, Charlie
admitted that he wanted a better life but kept using the worst parts as
evidence against himself.
Shakespeare nodded.
“The same narrator,
reading an unfinished manuscript.”
“And being a real
bastard to the main character.”
“Yes. You might allow him a little
development.”
Outside, Snoopy waited
beneath a streetlight. Shakespeare scratched his ears.
Charlie tucked the
legal pad under his arm.
Yesterday hadn’t
changed. He had something else to say about it now.
That is how the story
grows, Chalkheads. We live another day, learn another thing, and occasionally
discover that the fellow we have been calling an idiot was doing the best he
could with the information available.
Give him another chapter and for God’s sake, let somebody else hold the football.
