The Hogg Meets Whye Waite
Who would miss the opportunity for a free beer?
A deep pain cut across my brow and circled my eyes. If he mentions the word ‘relationship’ one more time when speaking about my wife, I’m going pour gas over him, set him alight, and beat his ashes with a big stick! Okay, that might be a bit extreme. Here’s the thing, I was attending an engagement party with my wife, Jenny. The couple getting engaged are friends of Jenny’s and among the invited guests’ several people who knew Jenny before we were wed. At the table, we were sat another couple. I excused myself to go to the restroom and was accosted by a guy who told me I was a lucky man, being wed to Jenny. ‘She and I go way back,” he told me. He is not someone I know particularly well, but Jenny did acknowledge him earlier in the evening. “Before she married you, we had a special relationship,” he continued.
Sorry, hang on, will you? My wife is calling. “Hi, Jenny.”
“Hi, love. Are you still in Sausalito?”
“Yes. Funny enough, I’m writing about the engagement party we attended last week,” I explained.
“Really? You need to get over that. Ken is harmless. Anyway, don’t forget you’re calling into Petaluma to meet with your Medium pal.”
“Yep, leaving the hotel in the next hour. Should be home close to seven.”
“Okay, I want to hear all about it. We can go for a walk when you get back.”
“Sounds good. Bye, love.”
I looked out the window — a beautiful day. I wanted to get back to my story, but Jenny was right. I had a lunch meeting with a Medium.com friend. I’ve never met him, never seen a photo, have no idea what my friend looks like.
So, why do I refer to him as a friend?
Words tell a lot about a person. I think he’s more rotund than me, has a face beaten to death by life, and unhappy as hell. But the man has a gift. The man has a beautiful gift, and being envious of his use of words, I had a strong desire to make his acquaintance. I offered the chap a chance to have a free lunch and a beer. Naturally, he accepted. Free beer! Who turns that down, right?
I repacked my overnight bag and trundled down the hotel stairs carrying a huge portrait. I bought it yesterday. I must have looked clumsy as hell as the hotel staff rushed toward me, insisting on helping. The droplets of water dripping from my forehead were a sure giveaway.
The drive to Petaluma was not without some thought. I was about to introduce myself as a three-dimensional figure to a man I’ve admired for many, many months. As mentioned, I have in my head an idea of what he looks like. I left him a message informing him I would be wearing a Tilley. I parked the car and walked to the agreed rendezvous — McNear’s Saloon in the town’s high street.
I heard the name Harry called. I turned toward the call, and my heart sank. I’m a guy who must soak into his clothes, hoping they’ll pull me in somewhat. The man I’m meeting, holding out a welcoming hand and with a beautiful smile, is some kind of fucking Adonis. What the fuck have I done? I immediately sucked in my gut, raised myself on toes, and rushed to put my mask on!
So this is the Whye Waite. A man I’ve been anxious to get to know? The author of mesmerizing sea stories and owner of the same-named publication. He informs me the saloon is closed. Good, I’ll just say that’s tough and head out of Petaluma. “There’s another place just around the corner,” he tells me. Great. Fantastic. Fuck!
The man is as warm and friendly as the afternoon sunshine. His personality brimming with confidence. I don’t know if I can tuck my gut in and walk at the same time. He’s a neat guy, not neat, neat! Neat as in his clothing, his hair, his shoes. I bet his trouser belt has 10 unused holes before he can comfortably poke the pin through.
Thank God, we arrived at the new rendezvous, a bit more upscale and we masked up. I’m happily wearing a mask. He not so, I’ll bet. The mask hides his perfect row of teeth. Mine keeps in bad breath.
We are shown to a table. “Great, it overlooks the river,” Whye said, removing his mask. I’d rather poke a hole in mine than remove it.
Look, now I have plenty of time to appreciate his tanned skin. I want to tell him tanning causes cancer; you’ll be dead in a week. How can I? He’s been so friendly and complimentary.
The server introduces himself. “My name is Leif. This is the second day in my new job.”
Honestly, Leif, I didn’t care. I was staring at Whye’s hair, thinking, I bet he wears a shower cap in the shower stall. I’m keeping my Tilley firmly placed on my balding skull. Leif wants to bring us a drink. Whye throws poor guy a complete wanger! Peruvian whatever. “Leif sinks to his haunches, looking for the said beer on his list. It’s not there. Of course it isn’t; it’s in fucking Peru!
Whye is kind and patient with the young man — the tall young man. I wanted to cut Leif off at the knees. Take that, you tall piece of shit. But while in the presence of genuine kindness and patience, I keep that thought to myself.
With the beers sorted, we began our conversation. What stemmed from such a conversation was that I was in the presence of a hundred-point-man. What made that more manageable is the fact Whye is a short hundred-point guy. No six-foot ego towering over me. The discussion served to allow us to blow smoke up each other’s ass. I’m so much better at that one thing than he is. He’s too kind and genuine. When he talks, he pulls you in. You must listen. It’s that kind of voice. No bully is lurking there, just a man whom it’s easy to like, to love.
We talk about writers we admire on the Medium site. That’s not exactly true, the writers Whye admires. I expected him to say that I was the only writer he admired, but his kindness went ahead of him to mention others. Sadly, there’s no one other than me that I have much respect for, let alone admire. Dr. Mehmet is a kind of okay guy, but his resume sickens me with envy. You just know that Dr. Mehmet is an expert at joined-up writing, so the truth is we have little in common. We discussed Michael, the poet at Storymaker. The man is an evil genius. I think he writes certain poems just to piss me off with his brilliant mind and magical words. I always give him fifty claps because I’m scared not to. Whye amused me with a similar notion. We have to read him, but hell, we have no idea what he’s talking about. As for Jack Herlocker, well, was a man ever so under the thumb? That said, is there another writer who invites you into his world in such a beautiful fashion. I cannot feel sorry for him; he’s got the ‘thing.’ Anyone who puts a photo of himself with a spoon hanging from his nose isn’t long for a padded cell.
Whye and I discuss the rights and wrong of Medium — how I’ve got over a thousand followers, nine of whom follow me, and writers that earn hundreds of dollars and Whye earned 79 cents on his best day, the visits mount up, and the reads go down. We laugh at our own stupidities. Well, mostly at his. What I loved most was my friend’s calming view of the world, himself, and his family life. There were times when he sat so still, I thought a taxidermist had walked in and perfected him forever. It made me realize I’m the Forest Gump of Medium. I cannot stop running.
The greatest compliment Whye paid me was to talk about his wife, the love they have, his son, and his outlook on life and his writing. He’s been writing less of late. That is a sadness to me.
Wait, you’re expecting more smoke, right? Good, he’s a talent. He may never reach greatness, but what he writes goes to my heart. For that, I’ll always be grateful and anxious to read whatever he writes. Okay, smoke detector off.
The hour went by like a tape-recording winding back and not forward. I have no defense for what is written here. It is a back-handed compliment.
While Leif is getting ready to bring the tab, Whye tells me he needs a piss (not sure of the exact language, but you get what I mean) and disappears to the restroom. I understand, too late, that this is a common ploy, one that enables Whye to pay the tab. What! I was going to pay! It was MY treat.
So, look, that’s not cricket. Forget all that lovely stuff I was saying earlier. There’s no way I wanted to meet up with the Adonis (I’ll get the tab before you do) asshole again. But he has forced me into it. I must return his kindness. Then I can dump the little shit in the river. Let his sailing club commodore come save his tidy pert ass.
Now there comes the point at which Jenny will see what a man can look like taking a bit of effort. Great, I can’t wait. Fuck!
Whye and I will meet again, meet the loves of our lives, share some smoke-blowing and give each other another hug. I left him and wished I’d used the napkin for my nose, which always runs when I’m saying goodbye to people who have touched me. For Whye, well, I would have to blow my nose three times.
Love you, mate. You’re a one-off. Try and beat me to the tab again, and I’ll bury your tidy little ass somewhere under the new section of 101. I don’t want to do that to Laura, so be warned.
Now this bullshit is finished, I’ll get back to writing the story I started in Sausalito. ‘Relationship’
Mess with the Hogg, Whye, and there are consequences. ❤❤