Georgie in Wintertime by Dan Morey
Georgie in Wintertime by Dan Morey
Georgie watched the squirrel through his kitchen window. It raced across a power line, paused briefly, then jumped six feet into an apple tree. “Bravo!” said Georgie. The squirrel scampered down the tree and over the snowy lawn into the shrubbery.
Georgie closed the curtains, and returned to his book. What could be better than a Russian novel on a cold winter’s day? After two chapters of Slavic warfare, he got up and filled his bowl with stew from the cast-iron pot on the stove. He’d made enough to last all week, so he could commit maximum time to his reading.
He ate at the kitchen table, ensconced in rising steam and gravy scent, the Russian novel spread open beside him. As the Tsar’s cavalry charged, a potato plummeted from Georgie’s spoon, splashing stew onto the book. He snatched up a napkin and rubbed furiously. A first American edition! How could he have been so foolish?
That night, Georgie dreamt about the soiled page, and woke up sweaty at an unpleasant hour. He took a long bath to settle his nerves, then went downstairs and phoned his friend Charles.
“I’m thinking about getting The New Yorker again,” he said.
“The New Yorker?” said Charles.
“Yes. I ruined a first edition last night, and need something to read with my meals.”
“Ah.”
“But I’m afraid if I subscribe to a weekly magazine my book reading will suffer.”
“Inevitably. One can only read so much.”
“That’s why I stopped getting The New Yorker in the first place. Well, I better think it over for a day or two. Don’t want to rush into anything.”
“Very wise, Georgie. Good luck.”
Snow fell steadily as Georgie walked to the mailbox, taking care to step in the deep footprints he’d left the previous day. He had nowhere to go, and therefore no reason to remove the snow from his driveway. “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,” he crooned, heading back to his cozy house, mail in mittened hand.
Inside, Georgie put a record on (Beecham’s Scheherazade), and settled into an armchair with his mail. Nothing exciting: electric bill, coupons, furniture catalog, brokerage statement.
After a pot of tea and three hours of Russian novel, Georgie went into the library to dust the shelves. He mounted a stepstool and ran the duster over the frames of his hand-colored David Roberts lithographs. Abu Simbel. Kom Ombo. Edfu. Mysterious ruins. Windblown sands. Georgie sometimes considered visiting these places, and others like them, but always decided against it. There might be camels involved, and the thought of sitting atop an animal made him queasy.
That evening at dinner, Georgie tried to read the furniture catalog with his stew, but the uninspired prose (“premium leatherette at closeout prices”) failed to hold his attention. He thought about The New Yorker. Shouts and Murmurs. Profiles. Foreign dispatches. Those whimsical cartoons. How the publication had filled his youth with so much delight.
But as Georgie grew older, and the magazines kept coming, and coming, week after week, he began to feel smothered, like there was no escape from The New Yorker. Books he’d ordered sat unread, piling up on his desk, while he plodded through The Talk of the Town, determined to finish before the next issue arrived.
In the morning, after another restless night, Georgie called Charles.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t go back to that exhausting way of life.”
“What way of life?” said Charles.
“The life of a New Yorker subscriber. I just don’t think I can manage it.”
“One should never try to do too much.”
“But I must have something to read while I’m eating my winter stew.”
“What about those electronic tablets? They say you can put a whole library on them. You just scroll through.”
“Goodbye, Charles.”
Some days later (Georgie didn’t pay much attention to the calendar), a packet of pre-linen postcards arrived in the mail. He’d won them in an eBay auction and was eager to grade their condition. Elephantine Island turned out to be in better shape than he’d expected, though Volga Promenade had a disappointing crease in the upper left corner. Derbend Fortress, Fishing Boats at Mandalay, and Mount Magnitnaya were all Very Good to Excellent.
As Georgie was putting the postcards in polypropylene sleeves and filing them away in his collection, he happened to look out the window and see the squirrel running along the power line. It sped up and jumped into the apple tree without hesitation. He’d never seen it leap so boldly. Such courage! Such confidence!
Georgie dropped the postcards and bolted from the table, leaving his chair askew. He grabbed the phone and called Charles.
“I’ve come to a decision,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting The New Yorker.”
“No. I’m not getting The New Yorker. I’m getting The New York Times.”
“But, Georgie,” said Charles, “that’s a daily!”
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Dan Morey 2024
Visit the author’s website at http://danmorey.weebly.com/
