Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

This afternoon, while enjoying a plate of ribs at KT’s Barbecue with a visiting friend (Dan Davison, a terrific novelist — if he can ever finish his brilliant book!), I noticed a man and woman at another table kind of, well, kind of eyeing me.

Dan noticed it, too. Looked from them back to me. “What’s that all about?” he said.

Before I could answer, the woman got up and came over to us. “You’re — him, aren’t you?” she said. “The fellow who writes that column.”

Dan laughed. “You bet he is. Absolutely. This is Larry B!”

The woman looked back at her husband. He smiled the smile of a man who’d rather be anyplace but where he was at that moment.

I knew the feeling.

Three-plus years ago, when I first started writing in this space, I would’ve shared it at a time like this. But I’ve gotten used to being a local (very) mini-celebrity now, and being recognized and approached every once in awhile suits me just fine. Makes me feel much more appreciated than writing television did.

(No one ever recognizes television writers because unlike newspaper columnists or bloggers, TV writers never get their pictures anywhere near the result of what they’ve written. And if someone does figure out what TV writers do for a living all she or he ever wants to talk about is, “Why is TV so bad?”)

The woman turned back to me. “I have to ask you something,” she said.

“It’s not about television, is it?” I said.

She frowned. “No, no, it’s about our son. He’s 22 years old and wants to be a writer. He sits at his computer all day and night and writes and writes and writes. Poems. Short stories. Scripts for things he thinks should be on YouTube.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Dan said. “Good for him!”

“Well,” said the woman, “that’s what I’m wondering. What, exactly, is best for him?”

This wasn’t a new question for me. Or a new subject. I didn’t even have to think about my reply. It came rushing out before I could stop it.

“I was a kid like that. From the time I was 13 years old I spent every spare minute writing. My family thought I was crazy.

“‘Why can’t you put all that time and energy into your schoolwork?’ my father demanded.

“‘Why can’t you put all that time and energy into making friends and doing the things kids your age do?’ my mother wanted to know.

“I didn’t know how to answer them because what I was doing wasn’t a conscious choice. It was like I was being pursued by big, winged writing demons. They didn’t just prod me, they shoved me to my mother’s old IBM. I was driven to write.”

“But how could that be?” the woman said. “Where did the demons come from?”

“Not ‘did,’ ‘do.’ They’re still with me. I don’t know why. Just lucky, I guess. ‘Chosen,’ is how I’ve always felt. I wake up every morning filled with ideas. Questions, mostly, about life. I go out and live a little, while those questions percolate. Then I go to my computer and more questions — sometimes even answers — come shooting into the back of my head.

“I feel them entering my mind and moving forward, to where I can visualize them right above my eyes. It’s like reading something already written. All I’ve got to do is filter it a little, change a word here and there, and then let the result fly out onto the monitor.

“I never feel like I’m the writer but like I’m the pipeline, bringing my readers what’s been put into my head.”

“By demons?” said the woman. “That doesn’t sound too savory.” She looked upset.

“I think of them as demons doing good work.”

“Angels in disguise,” Dan said.

The woman thought about this. She no longer looked upset. Just unsettled.

“Oh … well, thank you. Thank you very much.” She went back to her table.

Dan leaned forward. “You did a good thing, dude,” he said. “Poor woman’s trying to understand something that her limited life just hasn’t prepared her for. Artistic creativity in somebody she loves.”

His words faded as I concentrated on what was happening at the other table.

“Told you he couldn’t help,” said her husband.

The woman sighed. “And all I wanted to know was whether we should get Nick a PC or a Mac.”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 27, 2008

There I was, standing in line at the Paradise Post Office, waiting to mail a package to Youngest Daughter Amber and minding my beeswax when, suddenly, I heard the age-old question: “What do you want?”

It was more than a simple query. It was an exasperated growl, from a young man to the young woman who was entering the lobby with him. One simple sentence, filled with pain and anger and genuine puzzlement. “What do you want?”

The young woman’s answer was equally filled with feeling, none of it the kind that makes you smile. “More than you can give me,” she said. “I’m so gone.”

She pushed past the young man and went back outside. He stared after her, then realized everyone else in the place was watching, and rushed to catch up.

I was next in line. “How can I help you?” Erica the Postal Clerk said.

“Shouldn’t that be, ‘What do you want?’” I said.

Erica shrugged. “That’s just Tommy and Joanne. They’re at it like that all the time. He’s always trying to figure her out, and she’s always saying she’s leaving. But he never understands her. And she never leaves.”

“I know some people like that,” I said.

Another shrug. “Don’t we all?”

As she spoke, I knew I was at a fork in the road, a place where something important, both to those involved and those interested in the whys and wherefores of human nature, branched off in at least two different directions.

If I chose to, I could follow the closer road and try to learn more about Tommy and Joanne and their relationship. I could delve into the mystery of human romance and the pain that comes when romance starts to collapse. I could turn it into a poignant piece of writing that would disguise the fact that I wasn’t able to help them overcome their limitations and remain lovers forever.

Or I could follow another road and try to understand something that wouldn’t get me screamed at as a busybody and maybe even punched in the jaw. I could investigate the mystery of human desire and try to get to the bottom of the age-old philosophical question, “What do people want?”

I could turn that into a light, fluffy little work that would disguise the fact that I wasn’t able to overcome my own limitations and report on some agonizing truths.

If I took the first road, I’d have to hurry after these two, interrupt their ritual, break the pattern that helped define their life together.

If I took the second one, I could be much cooler about the whole thing. All I’d have to do was take a little stroll through the town square, and whenever anyone said, “Hey, Larry B,” I could respond like a roving news reporter, or a census taker, and say, “Brannigan” — or “Jane” or “Jimmy Blue” or whomever — “what do you want?”

And I could laugh knowingly as each answered.

“I want a million dollars, Larry B.”

“I want to get married.”

“I want Uncle Ernie to be alive again and sittin’ on that bench yonder.”

Eventually I’d do what I always do in this space. I’d turn that question on myself.

“What do you want, Larry B?”

“Why, nothing, my friend. I’ve got everything already. Love. Life. Liberty. And the ability to enjoy those things. There’s nothing I want. Except —”

“Except what, Larry B?”

“I want — well, I want to be ‘better.’ A better person in all those ways our parents tell us to be. More caring. More giving. More honest. See what I mean?”

“But, Larry B, what makes you think you need to be better? What makes you think you’re not already the best you can be?”

“Because if I was, I wouldn’t be hesitating. I’d be leaning close to Tommy and Joanne right now, trying to help. I’d be doing everything I could for them regardless of what risk it might bring.”

“You look sad, Larry B. Like you just figured out that no matter what way you go you’re going to learn something you’d rather not know. About others. About yourself.”

And, as I heard those words I realized it was really the Universe talking to me. Telling me neither road was safe because none ever is.

So I’m copping out completely. And not taking another step.

Except to turn to those who read this and ask, “What do you want?”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 20, 2008

Time now for the second Almost Annual Update on Paradise Happenings I’ll Probably Never Report About Otherwise.

This is the one where “Live! From Paradise!” brings everyone up to date on people and places readers of this space have been asking about. And gets me out of dutch with all those who’ve been crabbing that I’ve left ‘em in the dark.

So:

The Old Billionaire’s Marriage. The O.B. may well have had the kind of relationship with his secretary every wife dreads, but he can’t be certain because he’s having another dreaded experience: coming face to face with the possibility of dementia. For all his fortune, he may not be able to get out of this jam. Like all the rest of us, the O.B.’s going to need wisdom and courage.

Youngest Daughter Amber. Amber and her twin flame, The Adventurer, are still together, but their ’round the world sailboat cruise failed to launch. They’re in Seattle now, deeply in love, saving the environment and co-writing songs. For me this is a happy ending. ‘Cept I know it’s not the ending at all. If there’s one thing my life has taught me so far it’s this: Everything stops, but nothing really ends.

My Lawn Tractor. That fool machine was on the fritz all summer. Refuses to shift gears. In June, I bought an inexpensive little power mower (the kind you — gasp! — walk behind), and I’ve been using it ever since. The clearing gets cut just as short, and I get a little cardio exercise for not one penny more.

Bob the Very Careful Cat. Bob’s become a real cat. He spends every moment he can sitting on Gwen the Beautiful’s lap and purring, and even nuzzles me for some petting action when I come by. Trouble is, when I oblige I very quickly end up with wet, watery, itchy eyes. Turns out I’m allergic to the little guy. (Tip: Buy stock in whatever company makes Benadryl. I’m about to make y’all rich.)

Norma, Daughter of Delly the Interstate Trucker. Norma dropped out of college her first semester, but even though she said she thought my advice was hooey she’s back at school working toward a better future after all.

The Cloud Creek Ranch Sweat Lodge. The sweat lodge is history now, gone like so many things out in these woods. And with it Maya the Good and all she brought with her. Another thing my life has taught me: One person’s destiny may be another’s dark fate. Or, to put it another way: No matter how much you want certain things, they may not be yours to get.

Rosie the Sweet Arabian. With the healing help of J.L. the Horse Vet and her own inner strength, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa’s lady love has recovered completely from last spring’s injury to her leg. The entire process took almost five months, and for three of them it could’ve gone either way. But the great news — no thanks to Huck’s continuing to chase her around the corral every night —is that Rosie’s alive, well, and frisking again.

Gwen the Beautiful. The Mistress of The Mountain remains healthy, brilliant, and filled with love. She and I spent much of the summer traveling, both together and — due to unavoidable circumstances — separately, and both of us learned quickly that together was better. Way more fun.

Whither the magic? Reports of the death of magic in our life here in Paradise have proven to be highly exaggerated. Since I wrote about my worry that the wonders I’ve seen and reported on were the product not of supernatural wahoo but bad vision, Gwen and I together have experienced things like seeing the brown purse she bought last month turn black, Emmy the Bold go in and out of the house without ever having to open a door, and — hooray! — more dancing stars zigzagging all over the sky.

And, for good measure, after years of suffering from ticks, chiggers, and their icky ilk I’ve suddenly become immune to the effects of any biting or burrowing into my skin.

That’s right. Not a spot, bump, or speck. Nothing to make me rend my flesh.

“Consider it your reward,” the Universe said when I asked, “Why?”

And when I said, “For what?” I felt the whole planet sigh.

“You know I never explain the punchline,” the Universe said.

Mysteries! Got to love ‘em.

After all, it’s not like they’ll ever go away.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 13, 2008

People often ask about the special bond Gwen the Beautiful and I have. What is it? Where did it come from? How did we know?

All I can say is that for my part I’ve felt linked to my wife from the moment I saw her. But I didn’t realize she felt the same way until our first home-seeking expedition to the Ozarks, years ago. We’d been driving all day and, exhausted, we stopped at a Fayetteville motel shortly before sundown.

Just as we collapsed onto one of the queen-size beds in our room I remembered that I’d left my laptop in the truck. I forced myself up and out, and as I trudged to our parking space I noticed that the building next door was only half built. Just a skeleton surrounded by supplies and garbage, with a couple of porta-potties close by.

The only people in sight were two workmen. One glanced my way and then pointed me out to his buddy, saying something I couldn’t hear.

The buddy looked over at me. “Looks like a player,” he said. “He’s a jerk.”

“How do you know?” said the first workman.

“All the players are jerks.” The second workman started around to the other side of the building, motioning for the first one to follow. “Don’t pay any attention to him. You’ll just get screwed up.”

When I got back into our room I told Gwen what’d happened.

“If I’m a player, then what’s the game?” I said. “Is it this trip?” I got another idea: “Or this life?”

Gwen’s eyes sparkled. “Of course! Wouldn’t it be terrific if all those people who write about ‘The Game of Life’ were writing about something real, even though they didn’t know it?”

She was getting right into it and taking me further along. “I’m looking at things from a different angle,” I said. “The construction worker said I was a player. Like he and his partner weren’t. If they’re not players, then what are they? And what about you? Are you a player too?”

“I’d better be,” Gwen said. “Anything you’re in, I’m in. We’re a team.”

The next morning, when we went out to the parking lot to continue our quest, I pointed to the building under construction …

And realized it wasn’t under construction at all.

It was finished.

A big chain restaurant, with a “Grand Opening” banner over the entrance.

Gwen didn’t bat an eye. “Looks like the game advanced a bit in the night.”

“Like a computer game,” I said. “Fast-forwarding to get to — what? A part with more action?”

Gwen slid up against the door. “This better not mean a car’s going to come speeding around the motel and crash into us!” Her voice sounded shaky.

“If you’re not a player you might be safe. Just a bystander,” I said. “But if you are …”

“Players die,” said Gwen.

“No! I won’t let that happen.”

Quickly, I opened the door and practically shoved her into the cab. I tossed our suitcase into the back of the truck and took my place at the wheel. Squealed away before any other vehicle could appear and hit us.

I drove into the parking lot of the new restaurant. Circled around it.

“Definitely finished and open for business,” I said.

“Normally, I love when we’re right,” said Gwen. But now …”

My body felt all shaky. “What do you think?” I asked her.

“I think we should get out of here,” said Gwen. “But I also think we shouldn’t. Like we lose something if we do.”

“Points?” I said. “Or maybe we lose a turn. And you know how I hate to lose anything.”

Gwen thought. “Want to make our move and have breakfast here?”

Someone was coming out the door. The second workman from last night. I turned to Gwen. “Not the right strategy.”

“Then let’s hit the road. First one to spot our dream house gets a kiss!”

I still don’t know what really happened that night and day. Or if my wife believed me. Was she just playing along?

For that matter, I’m not even sure she’s believed in the reality of any of the weirdness we’ve encountered since that time.

But I do know one thing for certain. Regardless of whether or not life’s a game and the two of us are players, every passing day has been proof of what Gwen showed me back in Fayetteville.

We’re a team.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 6, 2008