Anyway, I don't want to go to bed.
Nobody is waiting for me in my bed.
There used to be somebody waiting for me in it — and sometimes somebody waiting for me in other beds not rivaling but resembling this bed — and maybe those beds, maybe I didn't want to go to bed in those beds, either — anybody or not waiting for me in any of them or not.
Well, waiting — was anybody ever in any of them ever really waiting for me in even one of them?
Or did I ever keep anybody in any of them waiting for me in even one of them?
These are pretty tough questions.
It stands to reason these are pretty tough questions.
Swear to God, would give it try after try at restating them and at studying on them some more on them — but beats me how else to say either one of them — besides which, it's anyway already, all of this, already getting way over my head.
My bed's my bed.
I am not against it. I harbor no grudge against my bed. I like it better than any other living space which I can think of. I would not trade you your bed for my bed even if your bed had you in it and even if you swore up and down to me it was always going to have, no questions asked, you waiting for me in it.
On the other hand, it's okay with me if you want to come wait for me in mine.
All you have to do is please send your name and address to the publisher of this book.
Oh, and another thing.
Look, so long as you are probably going to be in touch with Oakes and Robinson, could you also do this when you are?
Could you also tell them to let me know if you were anywhere around Miami Retreat in 1954, I think it was.
1954.
But I'm not positive.
The date, I mean, I'm not positive.
But don't say nobody never gave you a figure for you to work with.
So if you were anywhere around there then — Miami Retreat in the year of 1954—make sure you tell the publisher to let me know if you were.
Because I need people who know anything about me from back when it was then.
So you remember when it was then?
It was the year of 1954.
Look at it this way — haven't I been sitting here in good faith?
I have been sitting here in good faith.
Trying to do what?
Have I been trying to do something for you or do something for myself?
Who have I been trying to set you up with a little entertainment in their life?
Trying to supply you with a little needed entertainment in your life!
Thinking of you first, and then, only then, of myself.
So I couldn't do it.
But so okay, so tough shit.
But I tried, didn't I?
So how about now you go do something for me for once in your life!
Let the publisher know if you know anything about me from where I told you and when.
Because there is always the chance you know more about me than I know about myself.
There's got to be somebody who must!
As anyway concerns there and then.
Because maybe then I was even worse off then than I am if you look at me now.
But maybe I wasn't.
So pay attention.
This is serious.
This is between you and me.
Fuck the publisher.
Don't worry about the publisher.
I'll worry about the publisher.
Leave it to me to deal with the publisher.
You just worry about getting me the information.
About me in 1954 in Miami Retreat.
Also, I need to know what you think about you waiting for me in a bed.
You think it's easy for me to ask?
How many people would come right out and ask?
You any idea of what it must mean for me to ask?
I mean, it must mean I am just as worse off now as than at that time I was or at least as bad.
Listen, I just had this thought.
You know what a near-death experience is?
It's life.
No shit.
So what's this worth, a smart thing like this?
It's pretty good, a smart thing like this.
So there's more where it came from, es vero?
Do us both a favor and write the people publishing this book. Tell them you are waiting for Gordon Lish to come lie down with you in your bed. Or for him to let you come lie down with him for him in his. Then guess who won't have to depend anymore on him sitting himself down in this chair anymore to keep himself feeling rescued from himself.
But all in bad faith.
P. S. I'm adding this on as a P. S.
The same goes for White Plains.
Think in terms of the year of 1954 and of the year of 1955 as far as also the place in White Plains. Which for your information was what I was all set to call this book, but then they started acting like they were going to sue me for it and then the next thing was it was the whole United States.
Anyway, don't forget my bed.
WARBIRD
REASON CALLING THIS WARBIRD IS because somebody on the phone with me today thought I was saying warbird when I was saying something else. But reason am writing anything to be called anything is because there's this debt I think I am developing to this fellow Jon Cone, who has a magazine he calls World Letter. How I got myself into this thing with this Jon Cone and with this World Letter of his is not going to be possible for me to catch you up on because all I can seem to get the drift of is of me once trying to put one over on him and then of him figuring out that what I was once trying to do vis-à-vis him was exactly what I was actually trying to do vis-à-vis him and then of his — you know, of this Jon Cone's — writing me a letter to me about it and of him saying to me so — like, hey, you fucking bullshit artist, come on, man, okay?
So the thing I did today was pick up the phone today to call Jon Cone to try and pull some more wool over Jon Cone's eyes, figuring if I don't call but instead of calling write a letter to Jon Cone and give Jon Cone something from me in writing to him, then he might get this kind of a lawful like armlock on me and later on like come back at me with it and crush me with it in the law courts like I'm some type of schnook or some thing.
So I called.
No letter.
Didn't write.
Didn't get it down there in the old black-and-white.
But got the wrong number, it looks like.
Got a person who answered like this.
"Hello?"
And I said is Jon Cone there.
And the person said, "What?"
And I said Mr. Cone, is there a Mr. Cone there.
And the person said, "Who are you looking for?"
And I said I am looking for the editor of the magazine called World Letter, okay? I said is this the magazine called that? I said because this is the telephone number which I am right this minute reading off of Mr. Cone's stationery to me.
And the person said, "I'm sorry, but there is nothing like any of that here."
And I said I just want to make sure you're telling me there is no World Letter and no Jon Cone there. So I said can I be positive that this is what you are saying to me — nothing like World Letter there, nothing neither like a Jon Cone there?
And the person on the phone said, "What kind of a shitbird are you?" The person on the phone said, "So is this what is calling me on the telephone, some kind of a shitbird on the telephone?"
That was the conversation to the extent that I am going to trouble myself to try and sit here and, you know, and begin to make any effort to establish it for you as a structure for you.
But, right, right, nobody said warbird, that's the facts of it, no warbird was actually said anywhere.
Just said all of that warbird stuff about warbird because I thought, you know, you might, as a title, go for it. So then you can see how after it was set up for us as the title of this, how then, how the next thing you know, how then it led to some other things about warbird right there in the first sentence of this right after there was warbird in the title of it.