By Trevor Boelter
October 2nd, 1954: I’ve arrived. It’s funny, you know by this time people will be battening down the hatches in Indiana. Crops will have dried out, harvest in a fortnight. Soon the fields will be bare and clear, ready to be blanketed by however much snow falls come November 5th (Guy Fawkes Day for the Brits), for the Indianans (not Indians) it’s Snow Day.
And yet, as the weather turns quickly dark, here I am in the sun. Arrived. I have arrived. I’ve got my Royal typewriter, a ream of fantasy magazines and a goal. I’m going to write in this town, I’m going to write and live and love. That’s my goal. I think it’s pretty apparent that if you have a goal, you can certainly aim for something.
Not like Don, back at the farm, all giddy up with the horses and manure, the cows and the shame of having a dream. That’s what he said to me, “Kent, you’re a dreamer. No fool ever put food on his table from a day working hard on dreams.”
But Don, I’ve got you beat. I’ve got an appointment with an agent, one Mr. Harvey Sinclair. He’s the one who finds the food for dreamers, he’s the one makes the table setting possible. Harvey may be the fork and the knife and the spoon, but who ran away with whom?
It doesn’t matter. I can dream and Don can grind, grind all day long. What does it matter? My big brother is a dope.
Aren’t all big brothers dopes?