Ravi Mangla

VISITING WRITERS

I sat next to Richard Yates on a plane to Los Angeles. He was knocking back glasses of bourbon. One, two, three, four … Nervous, I asked. About what, he said, unwrapping a pair of saltines. The Times was folded, tucked between his leg and the arm rest, and I asked if he was reading it. He said he would be, but first he wanted to sleep.
***

When I was sixteen I danced with Dorothy Parker. She pressed a small delicate hand to my back and dipped me. The man in her booth watched us, frowning. She said she felt faint and asked if I would bring her a drink. What are you drinking, I said, the way I had seen it done in movies. She trusted I was old enough to decide for myself. By the time I returned, she had left, and so had the man. I don't remember what I brought her.
***

There was the time I watched Thomas Pynchon lather himself with cologne samples from magazine ads. We were going out on the town. He didn't have anything to wear.
***

Gabriel García Márquez was feeding pigeons in the park: slices of banana, browning slightly, and puddles of warm milk from a thermos he tipped at intervals. I'd like to introduce you to my favorite pigeon, Raul, he said, pointing to a pigeon in the middle of the flock. Can you see the pain in his eyes, he asked. But the pigeon, as far as I could tell, was no different than the other birds. Have you known Raul for long, I asked. Many years now, he said, and kneeled to smooth a ruffled feather on its back.
***

I spotted J.D. Salinger at a supermarket in Cornish. He was shoveling gummy worms into a clear plastic bag. His face was wrinkled. His beard reached his belt. He seemed to derive little pleasure from the task at hand. Hey, I know you, I said to him. He told me I was mistaken and that he just had one of those faces.

Ravi Mangla collects lists at http://readreadreadreadreadreadread.blogspot.com/. Other microfictions from this series appear in Gigantic #2.