Henry Yost was a nice man. He didn’t drink, take drugs or chase women, but that all changed after he met me. My name is Thomas Pierce and this is but a small serving of my life.
I first encountered Henry Yost while he was jogging past my home. I had fallen from the steps leading out to my mail box and although not amusing then I do find it some what humorous now. He was the third person that had seen me laying there and the first to offer help. At 83 years old I’m not as agile as I once was.
He started dropping by to check on me a few times a week after that and even though I was a royal pain in the ass he seemed to enjoy my company. It wasn’t long before we became friends. That would be my first one in over forty years. People and I don’t see eye to eye, and I’m set in my ways not wishing to disprove the old dog principle.
The truth is I’m a writer and after my first book was published I saw a noticed change in the way people treated me. My wife of 18 years began to spend money as if her very life depended on it. The day I got a bill from McManus Men’s wear for boxer shorts was the last day I spent with her. Being a briefs sort of fellow she was kicked to the curb. Then there were the children, yapping at my heels like small useless dogs, seeking to gleam the treasures of my work. Both had good jobs but quit after hearing I had been given an unprecedented advance for my 2nd novel. Even my friends treated me different, especially the their tempting wives, and I suppose in looking back I shouldn’t have bedded so many of them.
“Ruins of Helen” sold over 12 million copies and changed my life forever. I had once taught history to spoiled children whose parents spent far too much time inventing free love. With names like “Freedom” and “Rainbow” I checked out and started writing full time. Screw those people was my mantra.
My second book “Low Tides in Spring” stayed on the New York Times number one spot for 32 weeks, another first. Life was busy fighting off the fame they desired to heap upon me. I was a private man and wished to stay that way. I had to drive to another town to buy groceries for Pete’s sake. This happened just as Helen was being shown on the big screen. It won best picture that year. That caused me to move again and I have a lot of books so packing isn’t much fun.
I finally ended here, on Juniper Street in a quite town where everyone believes I’m a simple retired History Professor. I had started using fake pictures on those silly dust covers on all the rest of my books. Seventeen in all, eight made into movies and the public clamors for more. I watched “Field of Dreams” and ended up buying a gun.
I haven’t published now for 8 years, although, what I feel is the best thing I ever wrote is finished and sits in box on the floor. It’s completely different from anything I ever did. My worry is that when it does get published the public shall start seeking me out again. Screw those people.
Any way, I’ve gotten off track; I wanted to tell you about Henry. He was as pure as the driven snow, what ever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Had a good job as a CPA, he even did the books for the local Homeless Shelter pro bono, a real gem. Maybe it was just that I was lonely and let my guard down, but I don’t think so. He’s one of the finest men I had ever met. He didn’t date; to shy if you ask me, so one night I told him I wanted him to drive me to a local watering hole for a cocktail. He agreed on the condition that I not compel him to drink, so I lied. He sipped the first drink like a girl, but once it was down the second was gulped.
The next day we woke up in a hotel suite, both of us had a little pay for play friend lying next to us. I was afraid he’d be angry with me but smiled and thanked me for the best night of his life. I believe I had a small tear form.
From then on we’d spend a few nights a week running with women that aimed to please, he even smoked some pot with me one night. We talked until dawn about the world, about history, life, love and even some strange ideas about connect the dots food products for children.
Henry had come out of his shell and shined for the very first time. And he could roll a joint like nobodies business. We shared many a fine time in the lost art of social intercourse. He had some many ideas trapped inside, good ones worth exploring. It was during this time that I found out I had cancer.
Henry knew all along who I was but never brought it up, so I did. He had many questions of why and what it was like. Would I ever write again? He even showed me a few of the things he had written, though rough, still very good concepts. He just couldn’t grasp why I had hidden from the public and laughed at the things he would have done. Curious lad he was. He kept my secrets and I his, he was instrumental in getting me through my radiation treatments without the public finding out.
My prognosis isn’t good they tell me. But I have lived a full life and even though it’s been one full of regret I am satisfied. Henry moved in to keep an eye on me and I truly appreciate what he does for me. Christmas was coming and I hoped to survive long enough for my last one. I did. Henry got me a new dictionary and I gave him a letter.
The novel “Green Hues on a Blue Day” was published before I died. It was declared the best new work of the century and everyone is talking about it. The world wants to know everything about its author, Henry Yost.
That was my gift to him on my last Christmas. My publicists helped me get my “discovery of a talented new writer” rushed into print after many hours of convincing Henry that this is what I wanted. I argued that even if he never wrote anything of his own he would be set for life and could lead the life I had shunned. He could see first hand the what and whys of a writer’s life. I finally won his reluctant approval by telling him I’d burn it if he turned me down. The only two people in the world that know the truth of this novel are Henry and I, and half of that equation died, taking his half of that secret to his grave.
Thomas Pierce 1923-200_
(how should I know Henry, fill it in when it happens!)
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