About the Author
Barbara Riddle received her Ph.D. in Biochemistry from Brandeis, but in the process of writing her coming-of-age novel "The Girl Pretending to Read Rilke," she became committed to writing as her true vocation. Her passion is helping young women to develop self-confidence and meet all challenges with humor and resilience. A native of New York City, she is currently at work on a memoir of growing up as the child of free-spirited bohemian parents in 1950's Greenwich Village, as well as being involved in the development of "Girl Pretending to Read Rilke" into an independent feature film in the style of "An Education." She divides her time between New York City, St. Petersburg, Florida and her extended family in Sweden. Her daughter Laramie is a filmmaker in Los Angeles and her stepdaughter Simona is a writer in Stockholm. Among her favorite auhtors she lists Jean Rhys, Katherine Mansfield, Nadine Gordiimer, Amy Hempel, Carson McCullers, Anton Chekhov, Leo Tolstoy, Truman Capote and Ivan Klima. She blogs at www.poodlesontheroof.com and her website is www.girlpretending.com. You can write to her at poodlesontheroof@gmail.com with your comments or questions. She loves to hear from her readers.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
It was clear to Bronwen that this wasn't how Harvey had imagined it would be, not at all. He was lying on his back, concentrating all his brainpower on preventing the ceiling from slowly lowering itself down onto him. There were the snakes in the corner, too. He wanted someone to make sure the snakes stayed in the corner. And time was passing so slowly.
"Bron-wen! What time is it?"
"About a minute later than the last time you asked me, Harvey."
"Yes, but what time is it?"
"2:17 on a Saturday afternoon. In June. You're in your own flat, you took some peyote and you're going to be okay," Bronwen intoned for about the thirtieth time.
Eric turned his head in her direction and managed a feeble "Could I have another glass of water? My mouth is full of dry cotton balls."
All around the room, the crˆme de la crˆme of Harvard graduate students lay in various inert clumps, incapacitated by the marvelous cactus cocktail their host had served earlier.
Bronwen, fortunately, had immediately vomited her portion of the foul, moldy smelling brew and so she was both mobile and clear-headed. In point of fact, she was quite enjoying this bizarre turn of events. Queen-for-a-Day of the Egghead Peyote Zombies. Ah, how she could make them suffer if she had a mind to do so!
"Bron-wen, what time is ..."
"Harvey, dammit, it's going to be at least another five hours before this stuff wears off. Just look at your watch if you have to know what time it is." She had never spoken to any of Eric's friends like this before.
"I'm cold, I'm so cold ..." Bronwen was filled with contrition when she saw Harvey's pale, moist face and how his body was rigid with fear. It was so weird, looking down at her host lying on his best Oriental runner on the floor in front of the couch instead of ogling some babe from his usual perch among the itchy cushions.
She poked around in his hall closet and came back with a dusty dark green loden coat, which she draped over his body. She knelt down to tuck it around his stiff, frail body. It was the closest she'd ever been to Harvey. She caught a surprising whiff of baby talcum powder.
"Thank you. You are the kindest person in the universe. Thank you so much." With that, his eyes rolled back in his head and he tuned out of any remotely shared reality.
Eric, catatonic on the famous alpaca couch, sporadically raised his left arm and tried to make a record of the images and thoughts flooding through his mind. He kept dropping the pencil, but refused to give up his attempt. Days later, Bronwen found the yellow legal pad jammed under a cushion, its top sheet covered with the words:
Baskin-Robbins. Baskin-Robbins. Baskin-Robbins.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
