How Natalie Goldberg Turned Me Into a Thief

Books can be bad influences.

Today I bought Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg.  This book became famous for its inspiration to writers back in the 80s.  After hearing it praised by several friends, I finally decided to see what the fuss was about.  Between errands, I popped into Barnes & Noble and picked it up.  Then I stopped to grab a quick lunch.  But my quick lunch quickly became a slow leisurely meal as I dived into Goldberg’s book and found no desire to resurface.

From the very first page, I could not put it down. I suddenly felt like I was having lunch with an old friend, one who is really good at writing and really into Zen and who only came to lunch so that she could sit me down and tell me she believes in me and wants to give me a magical gift that will solve all my problems.  (Don't you love friends/books like that?)  I wanted to linger in that taco shop all day and read all 200 pages, but I had more errands to run, so I ran.

My next stop was the car wash.  Not the drive-through kind, the hand-wash kind.  But not the hand-wash-it-yourself kind, the kind where you pay someone to hand-wash it for you.  Specifically, I wanted the dog hair vacuumed out of the backseat before company arrives this weekend. 

I drove to the car wash in an altered mental state.  I couldn't stop thinking about Goldberg's book.  In particular, I was contemplating her theory of writing as meditation.  I was concentrating so hard on this thought that I entered the car wash through the exit.  Whoops!  When I got myself turned around, I learned it would cost $25 to clean my car inside and out.  Somewhere in the back of my cloudy brain that sounded high to me, but... I was in a rush and decided that I certainly didn’t want to clean the car myself, so I nodded.

Besides, I still wasn't REALLY thinking about car washes at all.  I was thinking about the part of the book that said, "Too many writers have written great books and gone insane or alcoholic or killed themselves.  This process teaches us about sanity.  We are trying to become sane along with our poems and stories."  I tried to remain sane as I got out of the car and handed the keys to the attendant.  When he handed me a ticket in return, I (thinking about how nice it would be to write a book and not want to kill myself) said, "What do I do with this?  Put it on my dashboard?"  He said, "No, you keep it."  So I put the ticket in my pocket, floated through the building to the outdoor waiting area, and sat down at a picnic table.

For the next forty-five minutes, I completely lost myself in Writing Down the Bones—reading, underlining, jotting notes.  Before I knew it, a man was calling out, "Honda Civic?"  I waved.  He walked over, handed me my keys, then turned and pointed across the parking lot to my car.  I became vaguely aware that I should tip him.  In my wallet, I had only a twenty and a five, so—what the heck—I handed him the five.  Then I moved to my car, still gliding in the pleasant haze of Goldberg's words.  I got in, pulled out onto the road, and, realizing I was in heavy traffic, snapped out of my reading-induced fog. 

At the first stoplight, I thought, "Oh my gosh!  It's 4:30!?  I still have to buy groceries and make dinner!"

At the second stoplight, I looked in the backseat and thought, "Wow, there is still a LOT of dog hair back there!  That stinks!  I'll have to clean it myself after all!”

At the third stoplight, I thought, "I tipped that guy five bucks.  That means that was a $30 car wash.  And they didn't even do a good job.  I wonder if I should go back and complain."

At the fourth stoplight, I thought, "HOLY CRAP!  I DID NOT PAY FOR MY CAR WASH!!!"

Yep, it's true.  A guy handed me a ticket, I sat down at a picnic table and read a book, a guy handed me my keys, and I left.  The assumption here is that I skipped a step somewhere.  I was probably supposed to hand that ticket to someone inside the building who would then have asked me to give them money.  But I didn't.  The only money I paid was the $5 tip.

You can judge me all you want, but I didn't go back.  I was already halfway to HEB in rush hour traffic, and I didn’t feel like driving all the way back just to say, “Hi, I forgot to pay you, so here’s the money.  And by the way, you totally need to clean my car again.”  I do feel bad, but I am hoping the universe will forgive me for this one. 

My new bookmark.

Anyway, though I may be lacking in morals, this story is not.

Moral #1:  The key to stealing something and getting away with it is a complete and total cluelessness, combined with a flighty, head-in-the-clouds attitude.  In short, ignorance = confidence, and if you act confident, no one will stop you.

Moral #2:  Writing Down the Bones is such a good book it can turn you into a criminal.  Thanks, Natalie Goldberg.  You owe the nice guys at the car wash $25.