I LIKE THE IDEA OF A WRITER BEING HAUNTED BY HIS OWN CREATION, ESPECIALLY IF THE WRITER RESENTS THE WAY THE CHARACTER DEFINES HIM.
"What did Tarzan say when he saw the elephants coming over the hill?" he asks, yawning.
"What?" I'm still giggling, my eyes closed.
"Here comes the elephants over the hill."
"I think I've heard this one before." I'm picturing Dannys' long tan fingers and then, less appealing, where his tan line stops, starts again, the thick unsmiling lips.
"What did Tarzan say when he saw the elephants come over the hill with raincoats on?" he asks.
I finish the wine and set the glass on the nightstand, next to an empty bottle. "What?"
"Here comes the elephants over the hill wearing raincoats." He waits for my response.
"He . . . did?" I ask finally.
"What did Tarzan say when he saw the elephants come over the hill with sunglasses on?"
"I don't think I really want to know this, Danny," I say, my tongue thick, closing my eyes again, things clogged.
"Nothing," Danny says lifelessly. "He didn't recognize them."
