The divorce was only fresh a few months when I decided to take Khloe on a trip. She hadn’t been talking much.
It’s a dangerous world. For example: I went to the Subway on Pineridge. It was just before noon. Everything seemed normal. I ordered my sandwich and left. That night, I watched the news. There was a story about a kidnapping, and then there was a story about a drug bust. And then, suddenly, there it was—the Subway on Pineridge.
Nervous and fumbling with a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes—my brand, though I’d quit years ago—he reminded me of a fledgling fallen from the nest. Eyes searching the room wildly, tufts of black hair sprouting in cowlicks, beaky nose becoming redder and redder each time he wiped it with his handkerchief. I was shocked to see him this way. When we were in school together at Columbia, he was cool, reserved, collected.
There is nothing more daunting than seeing “Word Count: 0” at the bottom of the page. It’s been six days since I got here and I haven’t managed a single word that I want to save. “Come to Arbor,” they said, “it’s the perfect place for writers.” Here’s my first word: Bullshit.
Arbor, Rhode Island is a tiny little town on the ass end of the Block Island Sound. My grandfather’s beach house is little more than a cabin overlooking the rocky end