Botanical Garden

As Ed drove out of the city, he gripped the steering wheel in one hand and a printout of the latest review of his novel in the other. 

The review systematically demolished the novel, with several notable adjectives being insipid, hackneyed, and tedious, with a longwinded ending that questioned how this novel, or any other by this author, ever got published in the first place. 

Before Ed even crossed the George Washington Bridge, the paper was crumpled and on the floorboard. He spent most of his time on I-87, reciting parts of the review very loudly in his car as if he were arguing with someone. 

Ed started writing in college, where most of his time was spent meandering through poorly organized activist groups that always dissolved after a few meetings. However, one group that lasted longer than a few cramped, dorm room meet-and-greets was L'Union. 

The group was against climate change, or capitalism, or the gender pay gap; he was never sure. But what he did like about the group was the meetings. By the time Ed had joined, most of the original members had left. The remaining three, Chelsea, Rosa, and Mark, didn’t care much about the group’s cause. They just liked literature and poetry and enjoyed having the space to come together and talk about current authors and what they were reading and writing. 

Ed wasn’t a big reader and didn’t know any of the authors the group talked about, but he loved hearing their enthusiastic discussions. They made literature sound like life and death—praising and trashing authors, old and new. 

He made sure to write down every name, either author or title of work he heard at each meeting. Then he would immediately head to the library afterward to get every book from those authors he could. 

When he first joined, the three mainly talked about French authors and poets. Then, it was German for a few days before they quickly touched on a few contemporary American authors. One week, the group was on to Latin American literature, and this is where Ed was introduced to the likes of Borges, Bolaño, Cortazar, and Paz. He especially took to Borges and Bolaño, reading everything he could find from them, even tracking down a copy of Bolaño’s Chilean Sea, which in 2003 had not been translated into English. He bought a Spanish-to-English dictionary and spent several weeks crudely making his way through the novel. 

During the meetings between the four, Chelsea, Rosa, or Mark often read aloud an essay, short story, or poem they were planning to submit for publishing at pedestrian magazines that Ed had never heard of. Several times they asked Ed to read some of his work. But after seeing how harsh the members of L’Union were to each other’s pieces, he decided against sharing. He would always tell them he was still tweaking it and would bring it to them when he had a better draft. 

Although he never considered being a writer, Ed had started writing an essay in which he compared Bolaño 2666work to Juan Rulfo's oeuvre. He would ultimately finish the essay and submit it to several of the magazines he had written down from the group’s meetings. 

One of which, a small literary magazine in Harlem, accepted Ed’s essay. However, they went under only a few months after publishing Ed’s piece in their last issue. 

Ed’s hands were white from gripping the steering wheel. He plowed down the interstate, driving in what passersby might describe as a state of hysteria. He had made it about twenty miles out of the city, near Rockland County, when he started to notice cars behind him in his rearview mirror pulling over to the side and stepping out of their cars to look up. Several cars in front of him started to do the same as well. It didn’t take long for Ed to see what all the interest was, as a Cessna 178 Skyhawk careened from the sky on fire. 

The small single-engine plane’s trajectory was now in front of Ed, heading toward a wooded area across the Hudson River. He took the next exit and followed the falling plane. The plane fell for several miles as Ed tried to follow its path while tuning to different radio stations to see if anyone was talking about it yet. He found a station that was giving updates on the plane and announced the estimated crash site, which Ed quickly put into his GPS and sped up. 

By the time he got near the area where the plane was supposed to crash, he could no longer see it falling. But he soon heard an explosion and saw smoke and fire rising above the trees.

He hadn’t beaten anyone to the crash. When he arrived, several news vans and a growing group of onlookers blocked any view of the crash. 

Ed parked his car as close as he could and stepped out to the overwhelming smell of burning fuel. The plane had crashed in a clear strip of Ramapo Mountains State Park. The only thing Ed could see past the news vans and onlookers was a raging twenty-foot-high blaze. 

He took out a notepad and pen he always kept in his back pocket, pretended to be the press, and pushed his way through the crowd, making it to the front along with the reporters. 

The crash was a heap of melted metal. From a distance, he couldn’t even tell it was a plane and not a satellite dish that had fallen out of orbit. The news reporters were talking at their cameras, photographers found increasingly dangerous spots to take pictures, and families gasped and screamed while holding on to each other. 

Ed had been scanning over the reporters and journalists when he felt a hand grab his shoulder.
 “Ed! What the hell are you doing out here?”

He turned to see Mark, from L’Union, along with several other journalists and reporters who had just arrived in a van together. 

“Just morbid curiosity, I guess,” Ed said as Mark gave him a big hug. 

“How many years has it been?”

Before he could answer, another explosion came from the crash, and everyone fell to the ground. Sirens approached in the distance, and fire trucks finally arrived in what seemed to Ed as a criminally long response time. 

The onlookers and the reporters made a path for the fire trucks to get through, and not long after that, police arrived and started putting up a barricade between the crowd and the crash. All the while, Ed watched Mark as he frantically opened a notepad and started writing. 

“So, what have you been up to?” Mark asked without breaking the concentration from his notepad.

“This and that, you know. Published a novel recently.”

“Look at you, Ed. You never once read anything when we were in the group, and the first time I see you in years, you’re a novelist.” 

“I wasn’t much of a writer when I joined L’Union,” said Ed. 

Mark laughed. “Don’t think I didn’t read that piece you submitted to that shithole in Harlem.” 

Ed didn’t respond. He continued to watch the disaster. What looked to be the youngest fireman there grabbed the front of one of the hoses and relieved the man at the front. The hose sprayed a thick foam all over the plane that, combined with the burning fuel, gave off a sour smell that made the whole area almost unbreathable. He pulled up his t-shirt to cover his nose. 

“It wasn’t that bad. I just personally like Rulfo more. Bolaño was always too slow for me,” Mark said, finally looking up from his notepad at Ed. 

“My novel’s a flop.” 

Ed was still staring at the young firefighter. Although he looked the youngest, he was barking orders at the others, like the captain. 

“Barely anyone hits it out of the park on their first novel. I’m sure it’s not bad. You just haven’t found your readers yet.” 

“It’s not my first novel, it’s my fourth.”

“Well. They can’t all be home runs,” said Mark

“Truth be told, I don’t know how any of my novels have been published.”

The young firefighter aimed the hose toward the front engine bay of the crumpled plane. Suddenly, another explosion from the engine sent everyone to the ground again, and a new fire ignited from the front of the plane. 

“This is it. This plane crash will finally get me out of these back page stories,” Mark said as he focused back on his notepad, writing frantically. 

The young fireman shouted for someone to take his place, and he raced over to the new fire that was now starting to spread toward the forest. 

Ed patted Mark on the shoulder. 

“Looks like they got this under control. I’ll see you around.” 

Before Mark could answer, he squeezed his way through the growing crowd and headed back to his car.
 Sizzles and pops sounded from the crash as Ed strolled on the gravel entrance to Ramapo Mountains State Park. Before he could unlock his 1993 Volvo 240, he heard his name being yelled from the crowd. Mark emerged waving his hands like a maniac. He was panting by the time he got to Ed and leaned over the hood to catch his breath.

“I looked up your latest novel,” said Mark, still out of breath. “Yikes.”

“Thanks.” Ed unlocked his car and opened the door. 

“No, I mean, I just skimmed the latest review. I haven’t read your novel, but no one deserves that.” 

Ed glanced at the crumpled papers on the floorboard. 

“Fuck “The Atlantic” anyways, what does that gutter press know,” said Mark. 

“You haven’t even read my work.”

Mark smiled, “I followed your career in magazines for a while, believe it or not. I know your work a little bit.”

Ed closed the car door and went to sit on the hood with Mark. 

“After four novels, I’m sure you could use a change of pace.” 

“That’s why I’m out here,” said Ed. “Getting away from the city.” 

“I mean even farther. Have you ever been to the South?”

Ed shook his head. 

“I know some people at a small up-and-coming cultural magazine in Charleston, South Carolina. They’re looking for good writers, and I think you might be a good fit. It might be just what you need to get back on track.”