I was rearranging the bookshelves in my book-stuffed apartment - anything that is not a book is something that belonged to my parents, and the books and memorabilia are crowding each other out - and I wanted to sit down and read each book as I was reshelving it, alas; but here in any case is the first sentence of a story by John Cheever, the book fell open to this story, "The Pot of Gold," from *The Enormous Radio*, 1953, and I love John Cheever unconditionally, so if you snark, the 3 AM guy will rebuke you:
"You could not say fairly of Ralph and Laura Whittemore that they had the failings and the characteristics of incorrigible treasure hunters, but you could say truthfully of them that the shimmer and the smell, the peculiar force of money, the promise of it, had an untoward influence on their lives."
Maybe you need to have been raised by steely WASPs with New England ancestry whose household gods were Cole Porter and Katharine Hepburn to enjoy that sentence, but, well, there I am.
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I groaned as John chuckled, rubbing my back and pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder. Laying over me, he tucked his head into my neck and kissed my cheek.
“Funny that a man my age can get a date like you.” John whispered as I gently elbowed him in the stomach. “Ow.” We both laughed as he rolled over onto his back.
“You’re an ass you know that?” I laughed as I peaked at John from when I was laying. Turning my head to look at him, John held his arm open for me. I rolled my eyes as I moved over to lay on his chest. “I had fun last night.” John nodded. “Although I wish we could stop meeting in hotel rooms all the time.”
“only safe spot right now.” He mumbled. I nodded as I traced patterns onto his chest. “One day though.”
“I get it.” I leaned up and kissed him. “I love you.” He smiled at me and kissed me again.
“I love you too.” He went to climb on top of me when I held a hand against his chest making him stop. “What?”
“John I have to work in an hour.” I reminded him. He nodded and laid back again. “Maybe tonight?” John nodded and reached over to turn on the tv to watch the news while I got up. We went about our normal routine and John ducked into the bathroom to shave. I was finishing getting dressed when a news bulletin popped up. “John!” I called. I dropped my jacket and went to knock on the bathroom door. “John!” The door opened and I pointed at the tv. “You’ve been accused of murder.” John frowned at me before looking at the tv. He walked out and sat down on the bed to watch what was being broadcast.
“I was with you all night.” He breathed out. I nodded. “We need to…fuck!” John yelled. “Fuck!”
“John…” I said softly as I went o put my hand on his shoulder as he buried his head in his hands. “Who do we go see?”
“what?” He asked as he lifted his head. I gave him a small smile.
“you need an alibi don’t you?” I asked playfully. John furrowed his eyebrows. “I’m your alibi. So is the credit card charge I made last night for the hotel room.” John bolted up and grabbed my hand as he made his way out of the room. “John!”
“you’re right. You’re my alibi. So let’s go.” He said, eyes wild. I nodded as I let him pull me wherever we needed to go.
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The Narrator: And you're lying again.
Yellow detective: What? How do you know?!
The Narrator: You repeated the question again, my child. You cannot hesitate, you have to project confidence. People can smell dishonesty, they can smell nervousness, even stupid people. But everybody's a sucker for confidence.
(Source: John Weir teaching Hailey Winton the art of deception, Rabbit Hole (2023))
Absolutely obsessed with John Weir from Rabbit Hole (2023) because he is truly THE autistic bitch of all time, he’s out in the middle of a forest having a meltdown because his absolute catastrophe of a life (self-induced) isn’t going exactly along with the intricate little series of plans he’s crafted out for it that he is clearly rotating in his head like one of those cafeteria hot dog machines 24/7, and you know what bitch, me too!!! I’m not getting chased down by a bunch of guys trying to destroy the very concept of democracy or anything, but I get it, I get it
When I looked up from my work, through my kitchen window, I could see an open field, trees in the distance, and the sky everywhere. Not the reassuringly manmade chemical sky of lower Manhattan, but an intimidating sky so awesome and inhuman that in order to explain it, you were forced to invent God.
