When I met James Wood he made me call him Morning, which man was I embarrassed when I saw through his cruel hoax, and then he whined until I drove him around to look for malt liquor and he puked on his tux in my mini-van and then fell out by the pool while I was inside trying to make his jacket pass the whoooo-sheesh test, and lay there bleeding from a head wound half the blessed night and damn near froze to death before the paper boy found him.
What happened next is sorta a blur? So anyway, the paper boy called 911 and pretty soon the cops were there, but they pretty much just told us all to give him some space. It was obvious he was half froze, so a couple of us went inside and came out with blankets but the cops told us to stand back. They said an ambulance would be there shortly. So pretty much we just milled around and tried not to do more that glance at the great critic there in his frosty blood and puke. I'm probably/definitely the most literary person on my block, so I was like: "That's James Wood!", but everyone was like: "Who?", and so, anyway, the EMTs did get him to sit up and then stretchered him and off they went, lights all blinking. I have always held James Wood in super-high regard, partly because I'm an aesthetician, too, but mostly because he has read every fucking thing! It fucking blows my mind how many books that man has read, and he remembers it all even though he cain't hold his liquor.
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