John Biscello

Last night I dreamed of Roberto Bolaño.

Or he of me.

We were sitting at a dimly lit café,

a subterranean plot of a café,

and Bolaño was drinking chamomile tea.

In the latter stages of his life

chamomile tea had become his drink of choice

as he permanently disfigured the literary landscape

with a pair of scratched glasses and acetylene torch.

Bolaño’s liver had gone to rot

and would not be making a comeback.

His father had been an amateur heavyweight boxing champion.

I wondered what he would think about his son drinking chamomile tea.

My father had been an amateur boxer, too,

but not a heavyweight, and not a champ.

I figured this was something Bolaño and I had in common.

That, and writing.

But I was too scared to bring up writing.

I knew of Bolaño’s legendary penchant for eviscerating other writers,

ones he thought lowered the bar, and I wanted to stack up,

make the cut, and I cursed out this bilious prick Bolaño

without saying a word to him.

I stared at the man, hunched over,

looking somewhat docile and resigned

as he sipped his chamomile tea

in slow and measured sips.

There was nothing to fear,

I was projecting, creating late night cinema

to keep myself on edge.

Then, a mistake.

I asked Bolaño what he was drinking

(having slipped my mind that I had already asked this)

and he said, without raising his eyes—Chamomile tea, stupid.

Stupid?

I felt my triggers flush and activate.

Fireworks went off in my head: Listen,

you scrawny, green-livered motherfucker,

just because you wrote some novels and poems

and denounced the literary establishment

with a holier-than-thou pedigree

and acidic smugness, just because…

My fireworks fizzled out.

I stared at Bolaño who was contemplating his tea,

a Buddha with a middle finger for a tongue.

Both of our fathers had been boxers,

but whereas his father had taught him how to box,

my father hadn’t taught me.

In that respect, I was at a clear disadvantage

if I decided to physically confront Bolano.

Then again, his liver was bad,

and as far as I knew my liver was functioning fine.

So who wins?

A writer with boxing skills and a bad liver,

or a writing with no boxing skills and a good liver?

I’d bet on Writer A.

I was Writer B.

I wanted out of this nightmare café,

out of this dream.

It represented too blunt of a mirroring system.

I rose to leave.

Bolaño’s eyes tracked me.

You should stay, he said. We can talk about writing.

Wait, Bolaño knew I was a writer

and he wanted to talk to me about writing?

All my venom dissipated.

Bolaño and I were on good terms.

I liked this proud, passionate, self-possessed

tea-drinking writer, whose father had been a boxer.

Just like my father.

There was that, and the writing.

We could potentially talk all night.