mamajoan

The sun was setting that evening, spreading a soft blanket of dark blue over the tired city like a solicitous mother, as Joseph Henley sat in a cavelike bar, drinking a beer that tasted as ashen to him as a marshmallow that you left in the fire too long, and contemplating the advice his agent had given him earlier that day.

"Joey," she had said, although she knew that he hated being called Joey with a passion similar to what a bear must feel at the beginning of spring, seeing the end of his cozy hibernation period approach, "Joey, your work is really interesting, this latest novel has a really engaging plot and you have some great ideas -- but we really need to do something about your metaphor problem."

"My what?" he had asked, as confused as a college student who stumbled into the wrong classroom on the first day of the semester and listens to a lecture on contemporary Asian poetry when he was looking for calculus. His agent sighed like a tired old tractor when the engine is shut off, and leaned forward to address him across her desk, a general commanding her troops.

"Your metaphor problem, Joseph. As in, you use too many of them. Jesus, it makes me want to start up a twelve-step program solely for the purpose of enrolling you in it. You need an intervention, Joseph. You have a problem. I can help."

Now, sipping his beer slowly like a condemned man savoring his last meal, Joseph pondered her words and wondered what the hell she had been talking about. Had she even read his book, or was she just critiquing it at random, like a monkey who's been given a word processor with the spell-check disabled? He sighed, let the last drops of beer dribble onto his tongue like water dripping from an icicle when the temperature finally crawls barely above freezing, put the glass down, picked up the briefcase containing his manuscript, exited the bar, and walked in front of a bus.