An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [92]
But no matter what, I was going in that house: already that week I had been locked out of my house and my mother's apartment, and I was not going to be kept out of this place, too. I got out of the van, walked up to and inside the house, and guess what? Peter followed me. This is yet another piece of necessary advice that'll go in my arsonist's guide: if you lead, they will follow, especially if it's painfully cold outside and your followers don't want to be left in the unheated van. If you lead, under exactly these kinds of circumstances, then they will follow.
17
Let me say now that between the then when this was happening and the now from which I'm writing, I've become something of a reader. Back then I hadn't heard of the author who was inside the Robert Frost Place, about to read from his most recent book, but I've heard of him now and have read all his novels, too. Each of his novels is populated by taciturn northern New Hampshire countrymen with violent tendencies, doing violent things to their countrywomen and children, then brooding over the violence within them and how the harsh northern New Hampshire landscape is part and parcel of that violence. Recently the author moved to Wyoming to get away from the city folk who are moving to New Hampshire, and he's now setting his books in Wyoming, where the men are also taciturn and violent, et cetera. And the books have won a few awards, and they've been made into major motion pictures ― I should say that, too.
It was a good thing Peter and I arrived when we did, because we got two of the last available seats. I did a quick scan of the crowd for arsonists or potential arsonists, but I recognized no one, no one at all. There were a few women scattered around, but mostly the audience was composed of men. Some of the men were dressed like Peter and wore red plaid hunting jackets or bulky tan Carhartt jackets or lined flannel shirts, and all of those men were wearing jeans and work boots. Some of the men wore ski jackets and hiking boots and the sort of many-pocketed army green pants that made you want to get out of your seat and rappel. Some of the men wore wide-wale corduroy pants and duck boots and cable-knit sweaters and scarves. It was a regular United Nations of white American manhood. But all the men, no matter what they were wearing, were slouching in their chairs, with their legs so wide open that it seemed as though there must be something severely wrong with their testicles.
In front of all of us was a podium with a microphone sticking out of it. On the front of the podium ― and all over the walls, too ― were posters announcing the reading, and also announcing the reader's position as the current Robert Frost Place's Writer-in-Residence. There was a picture of the Writer-in-Residence on the poster, and from the picture I recognized him in person, sitting off to the right of the podium. He, too, was wearing a red plaid hunting jacket and had a big red beard and a pile of graying red curly hair. Sitting next to him was a thin, bald man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a yellow corduroy shirt so new that it looked as though it had just come out of the box. The thin, bald man got out of his chair, walked to the podium, and introduced himself as the Director of the Robert Frost Place. He talked about the history of the Robert Frost Place Writers-in-Residence, and how each Writer-in-Residence was chosen for the way he and his work embodied the true spirit of Robert Frost and of New England itself. The Director then talked for a while about what, exactly, the true spirit of New England was. I can't say I listened to all, or any, of what he said, the way you don't really listen to those car commercials when they tell you how their vehicle embodies the true spirit of America.
Anyway, this went on for a while, and at some point he must actually have introduced the Writer-in-Residence, because the Director suddenly sat down, there was some applause,