THE FORTY-THIRD PAGE

I was getting out in the world, too. As an air courier for companies who needed people to travel to far-flung spots in exchange for minimal ticketing charges, I transported god-only-knows-what around the globe. Only one piece of carry-on luggage was permitted on the flight abroad, but one couldn’t complain about a round-trip to Hong Kong for a hundred bucks or so. The companies required someone who could leave on a moment’s notice, and unless under a deadline, a reader can just about make his own schedule. Manuscripts were too heavy and bulky to carry as baggage, but pre-publication bound galleys or page proofs were portable and could be read in association with the awful food and the five inflight movies that enhanced the all-day and all-night flights across the Pacific. It was no way to make money, but it got me out of town from time to time.

It was after such a journey that I returned home and found grounds for divorce. No, not the incompatibility nor the cruelty. Those were her claims, and I would cheerfully ‘fess up to them in view of what she did to me.

If I’d thought her vengeful, I would have understood. I should have known it would have come down to an act of malicious stupidity. A person thoughtless enough to not finish my novel and tell me so, would be so haplessly cruel.