A damnable night: rainy, cold; a sky filled, but as gas fills one's diaphragm, filled without visibility, a sensation of fillingness. I could not quite tell what color the night was. I thought at the time of "marbling"; but, again, not as something one sees, only as a sensing of factors together forming the effect. Cattle are fattened for just such an effect: tallow is marbled with sinew; you buy the meat but cannot determine its ingredients. It was such a night. True, I got splashed: that I could determine. A car hit a puddle camouflaged as asphalt; there I was, walking the curb. My suit got soaked.
"Damnable! damnable night!" I cried. The car stopped.
"Who you calling damnable?" a voice cried back.
"Nature: I'm calling Mother Nature damnable!" I replied.
My statement was pondered, then the car drove on. I assume my statement was pondered.
I was nearing the apartment building I lived in. Normally I could say so much of it, but tonight it too became nondescript. Where was its marble - genuine marble! - facade? Italian marble. Its curving portico? Its balustrade? Oh, they were there; but not to best advantage. Why describe a thing thrown even a little off its essence?
When I reached the door, I dropped my key. It landed in a puddle on the front step just beneath the portico, whose Corinthian beauty was gotten at ever so slight disconsonance with the stairs leading to the entrance, the former recessed just enough from the latter to attain the proper aesthetic delicacy. The effect, in proper atmosphere, is stunning. As I stooped to retrieve my key, a malignant thing tumbled onto my shoulder. It seems one of our nesting turns had chosen this most unfortuitous moment to relieve itself.
"Damnable creature!" I muttered. Then, on deeper reflection, broadened my curse to "Damnable world!"
I thought to myself "Wouldn't it be nice to live in a world where such things do not - and cannot - happen! Oh for such a world; even just a glimpse of it. But where might it be? And how would one get to it?"
I had spoken my thoughts aloud evidently, for the next thing I knew there was - of all people! - the maintenance man responding!
"Create it," he said.
All I could do was shake my head. How could a janitor understand what it was like for a man of sensitivity to make his way in this most damnable of all worlds? to be put upon by all manner of imposition? to struggle through one after another tribulation? Preposterous! And, yet, in his simple presumption I found a very great principle (which of course goes to show you that the true artist can find meaning almost anywhere - even in the words of a janitor!).
"He's right!" I said, in the elevator riding to the second floor. "He's absolutely right. If I'm to ever attain such a world - my Utopia - then I must create it. Yes, of course, that and that alone is how the world as we know it becomes livable and nears perfection: we create it as we go."
Then and there I decided to become a Great Author. Literature - specifically fiction - would be the mechanism through which I would create my perfect world. Oh joy of joys! I had found my life's work. I was through wandering a somnambulist's way through life, as though half dazed to a blank perception of reality. Everything would henceforth become clear - crystal clear; my steps, no longer silent, or muffled, would start to clickety-click across time and space both. They would be heard (not that that's the primary consideration: simply a metaphor). My world would be known. And, best of all, my personal Utopia would become at long last a reality, for the whole world to see and appreciate. I had found my place.
I was anxious to begin. I could scarcely get my door open; and, as I fumbled with my key, I beheld the door as if for the first time. "It's beautiful!" I declared. "A great door, a fabulous door!" I was seeing it through the eyes of an Artist. Its plain tan expanse sprang suddenly to life, becoming before my very eyes a metaphor for all doors in this most wondrous universe; its brassy bold knob was all at once a tiny star ever so concave, and felt warm to the touch; its peephole a window looking both in and out upon infinity, a finite little Cyclops oozing eternity; its salient numerals - 123: my apartment number - profound digits expelling ignorance from my path; its scuff guard a sentinel barring heaven's own parlor from lesser beings. For, be ye as gods who enter here.
The tumbler released what held the door fast: a property of matter transformed by a flick of the wrist into an aperture. I went in. The door closed behind me, it being weighted toward the outside. My apartment struck me as the archetypal dwelling place of humanity. Looking around, I beheld furnishings both exquisite (done by Monsieur Zed, the best in the business!) and metaphorical. "A chair is in bloom," I said. "See how the olefin opens petal-like to a sitting. And there - against that far wall: is it not an aerie equipped for sound? And lo - behold! - a great crystal from whose depths comes all manner of marvel, its antenna a line to the great beyond." And on around the room, until my eyes lighted on that grandest of all mysteries, natural and unnatural. To my immediate right was my bookcase; in it, all my books. I knelt before it, running finger after finger across the stored wisdom of the ages; here a novel, there a book of poems, or an essay, or a science-fiction, or a drama, and, in the midst of it all, like some great blue sun in revolution, my dictionary. Webster thy name be revered from this day forth!
When I arose from homage, in my hand was a big red bibliography, its pages filled with the names of the mighty and the immortal. I perused it. I would gather about me only the very greatest works, of the very greatest authors of all time; following their lead I would learn to write, and the sooner the better. But how, I wondered: how get them to teach me? (I had no time for a course of study - my muse was poised for flight!) Then it came to me: copy their hand, absorb their styles, discover the way, unlock the secrets. And thereby become one with them.
I immediately set about gathering up the works I would need. I elicited pen and paper from my linen closet, where I had carefully stored it. I seated myself at my desk, spread out the books, took up the tools of my new trade, and began. I chose, in these early stages of my career, to print, so as to better align my hand with those of my teachers. Every book mimicked every other in lettering: could I do less than extend mimicry to my own? I could not!
My eyes did truly see some glory there as I copied hard won words onto my sheaf of paper. "Who was this Shakespeare?" I wondered; "what for his fardols and old bodkins and the like? And this Doc Savage, replete with sinew and sneer? Or this Tolstoy, with page after page of noble family? And what of this Mrs. Radcliffe? This Colley Ciber? or this Charles Dickens? Where didst thou come, oh great and wondrous works?"
I had to rest my hand awhile; I noticed a callous starting on my middle finger. It is not easy learning to write, even with such teachers as these. The toughness of one's purpose often perplexes the delicacy of one's skin. It requires great discipline to create a masterpiece.
A thought came to me. I went and got a band-aid to enwrap my sensitive middle finger. From then on, writing came easier to me; though still my skin bore the marks of genius. To the truly dedicated, however, no obstacle is insurmountable.
In no time at all I depleted my store of masters, and yet my genius hungered on; it had fed and fed, until there was no more feed, yet voracity kept pushing me on to ever greater heights. "I must have more!" I resolved. My hands (for I am, mercifully, ambidextrous), covered with sores and hangnails, and cracked and bleeding, and stained with ink, felt as if they could go no farther; but my hunger silenced their protest and drove them to relentless agonies.
"I must write!" I cried. "And, by God, write I will!"
Neither aching hands nor a dearth of books could stop me. Purpose is an awesome thing - the very soul of the universe. A thought came to me, an inspiration. Trembling and numbed, I dialed the public library.
"Do you have books I can borrow?" I asked. Awed by my request, the librarian was momentarily speechless.
"I'll check," she said finally.
I waited - an eternity it seemed! - till she returned. "I see one or two," she informed me.
"Ha!" I said. "Surely you jest with me! How could one or two serve my needs?"
"You have to start somewhere," she replied. And the wisdom of her words sank in.
Of course! I thought. Two here, two more from the next library, two again from another - and, in time, a million - no: a billion - volumes! And then - then - I will be a writer! A Great Author! My destiny, full upon me.
I put on my woolen outer coat, though warmed as I was by zeal I doubted I would feel the sudden cold snap come upon our fair city. My hat too I decided to wear: a quaint brown bowler with fuzz like that of a peach and a brim of contrasting tan. "Ah," I wondered, "will it snow? Perhaps my galoshes. Yes, I think so." I put them over my shoes and was on my way.
"Driver!" I called. I had to take a taxi: if it snowed I would not wish my genius exposed to the perils of a blizzard. "Take me to the nearest library!" I ordered.
Once we were on our way my driver commenced a conversation. "You a scholar, Mac?" he inquired. The question threw me - on two levels. (But of course I would perceive more than one level in what otherwise appeared a simple question: I am an artist.) First was its literal level: was I a scholar? Is an artist scholarly? Can one be both? Or are they mutually exclusive? I had never occasioned to consider the matter till then. Frankly I did not know what to reply so I kept still. Besides, his question had opened up another vista entirely.
When he mistook me for evidently an acquaintance of his - and someone presumably on a personal name basis - he prompted what must surely be the most challenging consideration any great writer faces: what name to use. I was certainly no "Mack"; but neither was I who my given name declared me to be. Not as a great author I wasn't. I was no more a Roland R. Domby than I was a Mack. So the question arose: who was I? Or, rather, who would I henceforth be? I resolved to work on the problem immediately.
"Here you are, Mack," the driver informed me. Again he called me falsely.
"How much?" I asked.
"Two-fifty."
"Here," I handed him three dollars, "keep the change."
"Thanks Bud."
"Hmm," I pondered watching him drive away. One of his taillights was out - and I had had no idea I was riding in an unsafe vehicle. I shuddered and walked inside the library. "He called me yet another name," I thought to myself. "Could it be a sign? First Mack, then Bud. It makes a poor name. Unless...yes, perhaps so. Perhaps reverse the two. Hmm. Bud Mack. No, no ring to it. Perhaps something a little snappier. Something like..."
I decided to try it out. "Excuse me," I approached the librarian, "my name is Buddy Mack and I believe I spoke to you over the telephone earlier." I endeavored to catch her reaction.
"Oh yes," she replied, "you were wondering if we loaned books." She looked over her shoulder as she spoke, nodding her head ever so slightly to her fellow librarian at the other end of the counter. They both looked as if they were suppressing laughter. No doubt a private joke I had interrupted.
I was shown to the book section. "My God you have a lot!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, well," she explained, "as it turned out I had a few in my desk. Just help yourself. You may borrow up to seven at a time.
I thanked her and immediately began browsing. In no time at all I had selected my seven. "I'll take these," I said. "Do I sign for them?"
"You have to get a library card," she explained.
"Where can I get one?"
"My colleague over there," she said.
I was asked for my name and address. This prompted a round robin of sorts which proved extremely fruitful. Both ladies remembered me giving out my name as Buddy Mack. I had to explain that I was merely testing the name; that, having embarked on a career as a great writer, I naturally needed a good sounding pseudonym, one the public would take to heart; otherwise my genius would go begging. They saw at once the wisdom of my assumption; indeed, they attempted to help me all they could. Both agreed that Buddy Mack, while an excellent name for an entertainer, was quite unsuited to an author. So, in turn, they gave out the names they, as librarians, deemed suitable.
"Torratio Plume," said one.
"Sargent Helmet," said the other.
"Parapus Reem."
"Czarrel Fomish."
In this vein, they offered to fill my "by-line" for nearly fifteen minutes, then either their energies or their imaginations - or both - gave out; and that ended their names calling. I thanked them, but declined with a nod of my head each name as it was offered.
"Do not despair though," I consoled them, "I will find just the perfect name. My muse will swoop down from the sky to inspire me. All in good time."
My seven books in tow, I left. This scene, with slight variations, was repeated every evening for the next week and a half, until I had, in my possession, over sixty books. On my way home from my final trip to the library, my driver picked up another passenger, a rather pompous gentleman who took exception to my proposal. He had asked what the books were for and I told him.
"Copy them? You say you'll copy them?" he asked, a bit incredulously.
"In my own hand," I pointed out.
"In your own hand? The works of others? Indeed! Sir!" he called to the driver.
"Yeah Mack, what is it?"
"Stop this car at once sir!" my fellow passenger demanded. "I will ride not one block farther in the company of a known plagiarist!" With this, he paid the fare and got out. A most uncongenial traveling companion. If the truth be known, the way he was eying my books I half feared he would steal them, so I held them fast until he was gone.
"A most peculiar gentleman," I remarked.
"Yeah, I get a lot of weirdos, alright," the driver replied.
At home, my library books laid out in very neat piles, like with like, I began again the arduous task of learning my trade. I took turns at the spectrum, beginning with the blues which, perhaps owing to the vastness of sky and sea, I regard as the source of all color; then worked my way through the greens and on down to the stack of red books. Some were black, and these I set aside (for I know black to be the absence of color).
I was forced at many points to stop and tend my hands, once even taking time to consult my physician. He winced at the deplorable condition of knuckles and skin.
"You must learn to relax," he warned. "I recommend hot sitz baths. And here's a prescription. Apply this ointment three times daily."
After taking my blood pressure, he inquired how my prostate was, which I surmised to be working satisfactorily.
"What of the spleen? he then inquired.
"Couldn't be better," I assured him.
"And the pituitary?"
"Sluggish at times," I admitted.
"It's the cold weather," he explained. "Remember: you must learn to relax."
But how was that to be, when I had so much work to do? I could only dream of relaxation, but never taste of it. Genius drives men to impossible heights. I looked around my apartment. It too seemed agitated, inexhaustible. The sofa had gathered dust (from where I cannot say, though of course dust is freely dispensed within the universe); its matching chair, brown with contrasting tan stripes, was dustless, however. There is neither order nor harmony in the universe; or, if there is, it defies detection. My tan open weave draperies had frayed some at the bottom where they touched the carpet, perhaps from opening them each day, closing them back at night. At the far end, my dinette was visibly sticky: what had gotten spilled, and when? These were mysteries; and as I looked about my apartment I encountered one after another such. There is no dearth of material in this world for the artist to consider.
"Perhaps," I thought," my novel could revolve around these fabulous enigmas, show a world filled with awe, a world slowly revealing one after another mystery, a world you could never fully comprehend. Have a different chapter concerning each separate furnishing."
"But no," I finally had to admit, "this will not fill a whole volume. For that I need more than great technical skill, more than a unique style, more than simply the raw stuff of nature. But what?" I wondered.
As every great author before me has doubtless discovered, it is much easier to learn the craft of writing than to make use of this learning. Far, far simpler a matter, copying the printed passages of my predecessors in my own hand than setting down to an utterly blank tablet with no props in tow. I might mention that my desk is laminated cherry, delicately stained. It has burnished brass handles; and, while at it, I sit on a leather backed chair. I have a favorite sweater I wear in cold weather, a beige cardigan part acrylic, part polyester. In summer I wear a light green golf shirt. My casual attire belies the dead seriousness with which I approach my craft. I buy only the finest writing tablets, and I never use throw away ball point pens - only the best ink pens. Mine is a Cross pen, sterling silver with a black tip: a real beauty. Ideas flow from it which would do a philosopher proud. And my tablets are monogrammed in the upper left hand corner: fit setting for great art. Needless to say, when I have my rough drafts transcribed into final manuscript, I use 20-weight paper, have the typing done on an IBM Selectric III and scrupulously guard my margins. Nothing second-rate about my work!
I heard a tapping at my window. Outside, the wind was catapulting anything it could stir up against the building, so much so that I feared broken panes of glass. I had no choice but to set my pen down, though I had barely put two words to paper ("Chapter 1" I had written), and go stand watch over my property. A turn flew past, its wings scraping the lower pane of my living room window; luckily nothing was damaged in this onslaught by the forces of nature. I returned to my desk, but as my train of thought had been broken, instead of writing further I contemplated what I had written so far, and what effect it might have on the public. In that way the evening wore on.
"Tomorrow," I vowed, "disturbance or no, I shall continue my masterpiece." With this, I bedded down for the night.
I had been aware for some time that I was overlooking something crucial, but until the following morning I had no clear notion what it was. I no sooner opened my eyes than, as if a bolt of light come into my room, it struck me: I had no agent! "My God," I thought, "here I am embarking upon the greatest undertaking of my life - and I have no one to act on my behalf! Whatever could I have been thinking of? I must go at once, before I write another single chapter, and find such a person!"
I arose full of enthusiasm. My morning bath had never felt so invigorating, nor my morning coffee so full of flavor; nor had the headlines in my morning paper ever read quite so boldly. "My God, what a world we live in!" I exclaimed as I perused one after another morning headline.
"Man takes flying leap off Everest."
"President swears it wasn't him."
"War looms over there."
"Congress denies rumors."
"Fortune 500 miscounted."
"Church graveyard pilfered."
"Sex scandal rocks space program."
"Miners trapped in deserted schoolhouse."
"Child disrupts CIA computer."
"Portugal seen ready to add polymers to cork exports in hopes of floating the cruzeiro."
Each headline told its own tale. When I set my paper down I felt as if I had gained an understanding of world events deeper than at any other time in my life. It was as if I were watching these wondrous things unfold before my very eyes. More than a passive observer, I felt almost a participant, almost as if my reading about these events had some slight instrumentality in causing them.
"Ah," I thought, "we are all artists in the great game of life. How many of us know it though? Truly, but a handful. The rest simply ignore the part they play in creating history. But in reading it - in being there to read it - are we not in so many words the end for which the event occurred? I suspect we are."
From the newspaper I jumped to the telephone directory: The Yellow Pages. Under "Author's Agents" I found one whose name and address and the arrangement of digits in whose phone number most appealed to my aesthetic sense. I dialed.
"Hello," someone answered.
"Is this Hanson R. S. Meyers, Literary Agent?" I inquired.
"Speaking," came the reply.
"I'm looking for a good agent," I said.
"Can you describe him?"
"Oh," I mused, "he'd have a literary look about him. Wear turtlenecks, mostly white or silver gray. And maybe smoke a pipe. His hair would be combed back rather than to the side. And he'd stand about five feet eight and a half inches tall, in docksiders. And have crow's feet at the corners of his eyes."
I had no way of knowing I was describing Meyers almost to a tee. An appointment was set up for that very afternoon. I arrived early. His office, downtown, was in a somewhat shabby looking building, soot stained outside, dark and musty inside. Worse yet, it had no elevator! I was forced to climb nearly three and a half flights of stairs - the most poorly lit stairs imaginable; and there was graffiti on the walls, terrible, blasphemous limericks and the most dreadful drawings I had ever seen in my life, depictions of every conceivable sort of perversion. I shudder to think what manner of psyche created such abominations. I made a mental note to inform my agent what I had seen and what kind of impression such an environment gave, then to suggest his seeking a new location, one more in keeping with the dignity of his profession.
I knocked once at the door to his office then quickly let myself in. Someone had had the affront to make their obscene sketches even on the outside of his door! What some people are not capable of! Inside, a vacant ante-room greeted me. Where Meyers' secretary should have been was but an empty chair. What a poor secretary not to be there to receive her boss's clients. I made a note to remark my displeasure. I had no choice but to seat myself at a gray vinyl chair and peruse the magazines in the rack beside it. The first couple were in keeping with the nature of Meyers' position: a New Yorker and a Reader's Digest. Excellent choices. But, farther down, I became aghast at what I beheld. There, staring me straight in the eye, was the naked cover of a "Girlie" magazine! (And I do mean naked!) Some thoughtless client has left this trash, I reasoned; for no one so intimately involved with fine literature would indulge in such reading! So incredible was it finding such a rag in so prestigious an enterprise, I could scarcely put the magazine down. Hearing the door to Meyers' office, however, I quickly set it aside.
Out of the office and into the reception room stepped Meyers' secretary - backwards: she came out backwards, almost closing the door on her head as she did. She turned around and saw me. I could hardly believe my eyes, for here, before me, was the most perfectly unkempt young lady I had ever seen in a place of business. Her hair was undone, it hung almost to her eyes in front and was, at the back, part up, part down. And her blouse was unbuttoned at least the top three down; one could almost see the curve of her naked bosom. Her lipstick was smeared. In short, a thorough disgrace. It has always been my contention that subordinates should present as professional an image as possible in order to do proper credit to their employers: they should be an asset in every way possible. This secretary was miles off that mark.
"You must be Mr Domby," she said. I detected in her not the slightest embarrassment at her slovenly appearance, let alone any show of apology.
"I am he," I replied in a very cold voice.
A moment passed. "Well, you can go in now," she said. I was flabbergasted.
"Are you not going to announce me first?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, I guess I should," she admitted. Going to Meyers' door, she called out "He's here!"
"You can go in now," she informed me.
A poor reception, but at least I had been announced. Poorly observed rules of etiquette are preferable to no observation whatsoever.
"Ah, Domby, how good it is to see you!" Meyers exclaimed warmly. "Please sit down. May I get you a drink?"
"A Sprite will do," I said.
He looked in his credenza. "All out of Sprite," he reported. "How about a Scotch."
I thanked him but declined. He had one though. Doubtless with such a secretary he needed it.
I related my business proposition to him. He listened attentively. "So you're off to write the great American novel, are you?" he inquired.
"It looks that way," I told him. "And, of course, first I'll need a good agent."
"And your attorney? Does he see this venture as in your best interest?"
"My attorney?"
"Yes."
"I have no attorney," I informed him.
"Good God man!" he exclaimed. "No attorney? You're going to be a famous writer and have no attorney? Why, Domby, you may as well begin without pen, paper or passages as without an attorney! How can you ever hope to succeed as a writer without benefit of good legal counsel? I cannot recommend too strongly getting yourself a good attorney to represent your interests, Domby! And the sooner the better, before you find yourself staring a million dollar contract in the kisser and not knowing even where the dotted line is! In fact, I wish you had come to me before you wrote so much as the first word of your novel; I'd have steered you right away to the best lawyer in the business: my brother-in-law! E. Elgood Elkins, Esquire, of the law firm of Boulish and Beerish, over on 8th Avenue, Suite 301. If you like, my secretary can make you an appointment before you leave."
"Please, that would be very kind of you," I replied, extremely grateful for what might well prove to be the best professional advice of my career. Before leaving, I took a moment to express my dissatisfaction with both his secretary and the building his office was in. He thanked me for my candor; assured me he would take great pains to track down the pornographer who had defaced the walls of his building - particularly since, owing to a long-term contract, he could not move just yet; but insisted that his secretary, whatever her shortcomings in personal grooming, was a great asset to him.
"That woman is a marvel when it comes to dictation," he swore. Undoubtedly, he knew the needs of his office best.
On the way out, an appointment was made for me with attorney Elkins for Thursday. This being only Monday, I could not help being impressed with the scope of Elkins' trade, that it should taken even so important a client as myself three whole days to get to see him. Meyers agreed: it was quite impressive.
I bid him a good day, taking time to point out that the graffiti had worked its way to his very door. "See, here?" I showed him. He shook his head.
"Deplorable!" he agreed. "I'd have the whole door refinished, but unfortunately my contract allows me no such liberties. So I guess I'll have to live with it."
My heart went out to him, for I know how appalling it is to be put upon by bad commerce and business. But - what can you do? Such is the nature of the world we inhabit.
Sometimes - perhaps not often, but once in a great while - everything goes right for you. Things just seem to fall into place, one thing after another. This was such a day. I had no more than emerged from the Meyers' Building, as it was called, no doubt in honor of its most virtuous resident, than I encountered a little newsstand made of green wooden slats. It had not been there previously; and, indeed, from its somewhat rickety appearance, had clearly been rather hastily erected. Magazines and papers were nearly every minute tumbling from their shelves, or else the shelves themselves were poised for an imminent fall.
"Psst!" somebody called. I looked about and saw, sitting on the sidewalk in front of the stand, a most unsavory looking fellow, picking his nose. Upon catching my attention he produced from under a stack of dailys a magazine. It was a girlie magazine.
"Just got it in," he said.
"Why tell me?" I asked. My demeanor inquired if he imagined I was the sort to purchase such trash.
"You did just come out of Hansy's building, didn't you? I took you for one of his clients."
I did not care for the man's familiarity. "I am a client of Mr Hanson R S. Meyers, the literary agent," I said haughtily.
"Literary, eh?" the fellow asked. "What, you do the stories or the pictures?"
"I write novels," I said, coldly.
Just then an extremely well dressed gentleman happened to be approaching from the opposite direction. He was tall, had a thin mustache, his hair was graying at the temples; his coat collar was fur, his shoes of a very expensive design, his hat a masterpiece of tailoring.
"Pardon me, sir," he addressed me, "but I get the impression this vendor is bothering you - am I correct in my assumption?"
"Indeed you are, sir," I replied with a dignity equal to if not surpassing this gentleman's own.
"Spanky," he turned to the vendor, "I've told you before: I do not want you harassing men of such obvious breeding as this gentleman. If you must peddle your obscene material, do it among your own kind and leave the finer customers alone! Do I make myself clear?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, screw a bitch, screw a whore!"
Such talk, and in the open street! Had I not heard it with my own ears I would not have believed it. I could only shake my offended head.
"Spanky," the gentleman who had taken so keen an interest in my well-being again addressed the vendor, "give this man a Times - on the house, and if you can manage it, an apology as well."
The paper was all I got. I offered of course to pay for it. "No," the gentleman stopped me, "I insist. My man here has insulted you, let the paper be a token of apology. And will you join me at my Club for a drink?"
"Well, I was on my way home to complete my first chapter - but perhaps one small drink."
"Excellent! There's my limousine parked at the curb." With this, he directed me to a big black Lincoln Continental, where his chauffer opened the rear door for us. "To the Club!" he ordered.
"Yes sir," replied his chauffer.
We chatted a moment in the limousine, mostly about the unseasonable weather we had been having lately. In no time at all we pulled up in front of his Club, an imposing brownstone beside the door of which read, in bronze lettering on a black plaque, "Bartleby's." We went in.
"Doubtless you enjoyed our name for this place," my kind host said with a satisfied smile.
"Yes, indeed, I certainly did," I replied.
"Melville captured the essence of the trade - don't you think? Although, technically, we are certainly not scriveners. But, nonetheless, it appeals to us - to our sense of the absurd!"
"To mine too," I assured him. "It was a good choice, Bartleby and not Ahab," I thought fit to add.
"You're quite right - and quite witty," my host owned. I thanked him on both counts.
Once seated, in elegant oxblood leather chairs, and he having lighted a cigar, after offering me one, which I declined, I inquired what he did for a living. I could not help but be puzzled by his apparent connection with the newspaper vendor back at the Meyers Building, and thought perhaps the connection lay somewhere in his choice of occupation.
"A printer," he replied. After a pause, he added an apology. "Forgive me," he said, "I assumed you understood that to be my occupation."
"I rarely make assumptions, sir," I explained, more to ease the awkwardness of his predicament than anything else. "A printer, eh?" I mused. "Perhaps that accounts for your dealings with the vendor?" I half questioned.
"Spanky? Yes, he's my man, he works for me. In what you might call diversification, I distribute as well as print. Even so, technically, he is - as in truth are half a hundred others throughout the city - concessionaires, somewhat independent of me - for tax and income purposes, you understand. But, believe me, sir, you pay a price for saving on the cost of incorporation: you saw what a saucy fellow he was, and how he tries to peddle his girlie magazines on the sly! But what can you do?"
"You can have him arrested, that's what," I made bold to suggest.
"Oh I couldn't do that to him," my host admitted. No, of course he couldn't, not so kind-hearted a gentleman: who could even think otherwise?
"So you're a printer," I again mused. "What a small world: you a printer, me an author. Perhaps I could get the printing sub-contracted to your company," I suggested.
"An excellent idea," he agreed. "And who is your publisher, may I be so bold as to inquire?"
"Actually, I've been so busy working on my novel - what with perfecting my style, getting the necessary equipment, outlining my chapters, and so on - I have not yet had the time to get a publisher," I explained.
"Oh, I see. Hmm." He fell to musing, as he puffed his cigar and took a sip of the brandy the waiter had brought. Evidently brandy was his usual drink, for he certainly never ordered it, nor ordered me anything for that matter.
"And the gentleman?" the waiter asked, indicating me.
"Yes, he is," my host replied vaguely. The waiter left, and as he did not return I can only assume he thought I wanted nothing to drink.
"So you need a publisher," the printer, my host, still mused.
"In point of fact yes," I replied.
"And I know of one, as it happens. A most reputable entrepreneur. Yes, yes..." He seemed to be thinking. "Yes indeed. And, in gratitude for my having sent him a new author to publish, he might very well sub-contract the printing to me. Yes, this could be very mutually rewarding - for all three of us in fact: author, publisher, printer. Hmm, I wonder. I'll have my attorney look into it - and I suggest you do likewise: two legal opinions are always better than one - and a half dozen better still! So, how about let's leave it at that? And here's my card. You can get in touch with me by phone, let's say tomorrow A.M.; and in the meantime I'll try and get a letter of introduction to the publisher so he'll already know something about you. A book such as yours might be just what he's been looking for."
I thanked him most heartily for his kindness. On the way out of Bartleby's I stopped at the fountain for a drink of water. It was only much later I noticed his name was not on the card he gave me, just his address and telephone number.
There it was raining again; and I had not brought my umbrella. I felt a little ridiculous having given so much energy to my being thirsty in at Bartleby's, and almost wished now I had not stopped for a drink of water, in light of this horrendous turn of events. Life is full of little ironies like that. I did my best to walk beneath the porticoes, canopies, awnings and marquises scattered along the street; even so, I got a little wet. Just as I was nearing a busy intersection a peddler came up to me selling, of all things, umbrellas.
"How much?" I asked.
"Well, seeing how I have you over a barrel: you'll get soaked if you cross here without an umbrella, I'm going to double my price. Normally, in good weather, I'd ask $2.50; today it's $5.00. Take it or leave it."
Naturally I took it, and hurried on. I noticed the peddler following me, but I simply assumed he was pursuing his trade route. Momentarily, however, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Pardon me," he said.
"Yes?" I asked, neither turning nor stopping.
"Did you want to take a service contract on that?"
"I beg your pardon?" I was not certain I had heard him correctly.
"Service contract: you want one? They come in one, two or three years. All mechanical defects are covered, barring improper handling on your part. The one year is fifty cents; the two year, sixty-five; a dollar fifty for the deluxe three year warranty. You can't beat it. Trouble free maintenance. Should anything go wrong, just look me up. Interested?"
"I think not," I replied, still walking.
"How about a rain hat?" the peddler persisted. "Without a service contract, if anything goes wrong with your umbrella you'll be up Shit's Creek!"
"I hardly think so!" I rejoined.
"What do you do for a living?" Evidently he was trying a different ploy.
I told him I was an author. "Yeah?" he said. He seemed impressed; that at least spoke well of him, even if his lowly profession did not. "What have you written?"
"My work will not be out till spring or summer," I explained.
"You ever wrote anything about Astrology?" he asked.
"I am an author, sir, not a pulp writer! I create fiction, I do not report on the movement of planets and stars, nor do I pander to an ignorant, gullible public! I am a man of taste and breeding!'
"I used to be too," the peddler admitted. At this, I stopped and turned to face him. "Oh don't bother trying to find evidence of it," he said. "Nothing of my background remains in my appearance - except possibly at the corners of my eyes, if you'll look closely."
In truth, I did see some sign of breeding where he pointed, though it had all but vanished. How unkind the years had been to this most unfortunate individual. Perhaps once he sat at the symphony, perhaps in a box seat, perhaps one where I myself had sat; or perhaps he had visited the Museum of Art, or had been a buyer of rare books - perhaps he had even once been himself an author. Who could say?"
"What went wrong?" I could not help asking.
"The critics killed me, sir. Killed me and left me for dead. I had a way with words, you see. I was a great stylist. My poems - yes, I was a poet - my poems captured the very essence of style."
"How could they have failed to see that?" I asked.
"Oh, they're not to blame, not really. You see, it was the public that shunned me first. I thought myself above them, above their concerns, Their lives were not the stuff of poetry, I thought. Yet at the same time I imagined they would buy my works. I thought I could look down upon mankind yet have it look up to me. I was fooled, sir. I listened too much to the critics, who gave me to believe that art was something only the rare few could comprehend. I wrote only for the critics. They never wrote back, sir. Now I sell goods on the street, day and night. I might have been a great poet had I seen beauty as life arising from humanity; instead, I saw it as a structure plucked like a tinker toy from some critical theory. Aesthetics was my salvation, Longinus my savior. Now I offer service contracts on second-hand umbrellas. I refused to be a poet of the people. I became a peddler. There are many things in this world sir; but above all there is justice. I am living proof of that."
"Perhaps the two year," I started to offer, but he waved away my generosity.
"No," he said, "it wouldn't be right, not now. The fun is gone. If you bought my contract now it would be merely a charitable gesture, which to me is almost as abominable as a rational business transaction where both parties pretend something outstanding has been accomplished. Take away the absurdity, sir, and I would be out of business in a flash. Good day, sir, and may your umbrella serve you well."
Famous last words! For my umbrella collapsed about my very head before I had gotten half a block farther.
Poor bargain or no, the umbrella was well worth the cost, even if it practically rendered me unconscious. I was dazed when it collapsed, so much so that I could not manage to raise it off my head.
"Have a care there!" someone shouted.
"Watch where you're headed!" another shout rang out.
"Someone help him, he's trapped!" a woman's panic-stricken voice cried.
I was not aware of still moving, but evidently the catastrophe had not brought me to a complete halt. Without my awareness, I was headed straight for the next intersection, perfectly unable to see where I was going, or even to gauge that I was going, when, just in the nick of time a policeman caught hold of me.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked. "Are you high on something?"
I denied being high. "It's a new umbrella," I explained as I was finally freed from the clutches of that dreadful machine. "It has not been fully tested, and the warranty has expired."
"You should have bought the service contract," the policeman advised.
"Perhaps so," I said. Thanking him, I resumed my walk. Luckily the rain had subsided. As dreadful as the experience with the umbrella was, and as close as it brought me to the brink of death, still I marveled at how utterly important it was for the great author to take his art from life itself. This was a God-send, discovering so crucial a detail so early in the game; it might well have spared me a fate similar to his. I was resolved to go among my fellow man, to study him, to become as one of his own kind, to live the life he lives, thereby the better to create. My fiction would be informed with the very breath of life. The Common Man: I would join his ranks. I would go among him. I would come away from the adventure a greater author than ever.
"What would the Common Man do?" I wondered. Where to find him: that too was the question. I debated going home to study the problem.
"No!" I said emphatically. "I will get a job! And study later."
I was ecstatic. "What a stroke of genius," I told myself. So I went out and took the first job I came upon. I took a taxi to the part of town where people worked. "Factory Row," everyone called it, and no wonder. For as many blocks, in either direction, as the eye could see, they were lined up, one after another, big factories, little factories, in-between factories. Smoke belched from tall smokestacks everywhere, white smoke, gray smoke, black sooty smoke. The whole area stank of sulphur and the air choked me as I emerged from the taxi.
"I'm here!" I declared. Musty looking buildings stretched into the horizon. Old bricks, looking as if they had just been unearthed from a thousand years ago, their mound of covering only tentatively brushed away; stucco, the hairline points of which seemed to have ants impaled on them, fixing row after row of dead insects in relief; wooden slats morphing into steel wool strands; iron grating a compost of rotting machines; bolts and bars, new and golden bronze, affixed to a stretched residue of doors, like seals on parchment: these were the images Factory Row conjured up. And sidewalks, like the bottom of a sewer; I was reluctant to take a step. But to get from the curb to even the nearest factory I had to. These shoes - my best wingtips - I would have to dispose of before entering my apartment when I went home after work. Boldly, my senses assailed every inch of the way, I made for the factory, a three story cube with three windows, one on each floor, and with thick iron bars at each. Out front, on a plaque whose red, white and blue lettering had chipped into a gray amalgam, was the name: "P&T Novelties, Inc." Stapled to this was a smaller sign; it told of "Job Opportunities: In quire Within." In I went, to inquire.
I was put right to work. I would approach my new job not as a worker, which I most definitely was not, nor even so much as an artist, though of course I was, but as a scientist; specifically, a sociologist, an anthropologist. I would study these, my fellow workers - though "fellows" of mine they most assuredly were not - with a keen eye to discerning their true selves, their deeper natures. No facet of their lives would escape my careful scrutiny, no detail would be left unintegrated into the picture I planned to, as it were, develop from the raw data. The methods of a scientist, through the eyes of an artist.
"You are joining the staff of one of America's fastest growing companies, a leader - a pioneer! - in the most rapidly expanding industry in the country," I was told during my personnel interview. The gentleman graciously relating this information was no less than the assistant vice-president in charge of hiring and firing, recruiting and replacing. It was he who prescribed starting wages, ascribed what benefits a given worker was entitled to, described the nature of working conditions.
"This, our parent plant, is - even as we speak - being modernized. Very soon we expect to have a complete set of air vents throughout. Once we get these, it'll just be a matter of time till heating and cooling can be installed. From our profits, a special, tax deductible fund has been established for just this purpose. We at P&T Novelties believe in the American Way - and expect our employees to, likewise. Slouches and slackers we will not tolerate, nor abide tardiness, drunkenness, slovenliness, talking on the job, or snacking at inappropriate times; nor, certainly, the taking, dispensing or selling of drugs or pornography on these premises; nor will we allow coffee breaks or lunches to exceed by so much as a second the generous time we have set aside for these benefits. Your starting salary will be minimum wage, you will work a 40-hour week, split shift on a minute's notice, and you will be on probation for a period of five years, after which you will be entitled to a five-cent per hour raise. At that time, also, you will be eligible for low-option health benefits at one quarter of your base salary. If you have no questions, I will turn you over to Mr. George, who will be your foreman. And, for me and the rest of our managers, from the bottom of our hearts we are pleased you have chosen to join our staff of professionals. Welcome to P&T!"
I thanked him. Mr. George was summoned. He came for me. "Okay, Bud," he greeted me in a gruff, business-like manner appropriate to his position. "I'm responsible you guys produce. And produce you will! It's my job to motivate you. Now get crackin' - or you just may get cracked! A little joke I tell, to make new workers feel at home," he laughingly explained.
I was taken to the "Shop" as the actual factory area was termed. At first I could make nothing out for the steam and smoke which hung like fog from the rafters of the high ceiling. Gradually, things began appearing out of the haze. A giant assembly line filled the bulk of the floor space. Across it a belt drew odd dark shapes which the workers, whom I could now see if only in outline, did various things to. As they grew more distinct, I could tell that some, at the far end, boxed the objects, some, at the other end, placed them onto the belt, some poked it with prongs, as if forming it into specific molds, some sprayed it, and some counted it. A few seemed engaged in testing it.
"Okay," the foreman began explaining what was expected of me, "the Tiddley-Turds are the big ones; the Piddley-Poop small! Your job is to keep the two separate at all times. Blarney there assesses weight, shape, texture, and so forth. You just keep him supplied. Keep 'em moving his way. And, for Christ sake, keep 'em separate! I don't want Blarney picking up a Turd thinking it's Poop! Or vice-versa, as the case may be. Got that?"
"Yes, I think so," I said. Immediately I was put in place on the line, between Blarney to my right and a middle-aged woman, closer at hand, on my left. I knew we were not permitted to talk; but how was I ever to attain my goal of understanding these common people if I observed vows of silence too religiously? So I struck up a conversation.
"What exactly are these things?" I asked the woman next to me.
"Honey, it's what P&T is all about," she replied, offering no further explanation.
"What is it all about?" I asked.
"Novelties," she said, in such a tone as to inquire why I was asking the obvious.
"Oh," I replied. A moment later I asked what kind of novelties, exactly, they were.
"Where'd you come from?" she asked. "My lord, child, didn't your daddy ever buy you Doggie-Doo when you were a boy?"
"No, I don't recall it."
"My lord!" she declared. "Well, this is the company that perfected it! It used to be called DD Enterprises then. Almost got the patent on it too. Now that the Piddley-Poops and the Tiddley-Turds have taken over, they changed it to P&T Novelties. Where you been hiding all your life, not to have heard of P&T before now? Novelties is the hottest business in America today, bigger almost than computers! Me, I worked making computer chips till they built a machine with hands small enough to do it for me. So as to assist me, make my work easier. Well, lo and behold it got so good at it they up and laid me off completely! Uh-oh," she said suddenly, "cool it, look busy, M.r George's back! So if you want to talk more, you talk to yourself and just answer yourself too! 'Cause me and Blarney need these here jobs."
Not another word was said till mid-morning, when all of a sudden the assembly belt ceased moving and everyone made a mad dash for the exit. I feared a catastrophe, so I stopped what I was doing and joined the others. Moving so fast, I was apprehensive I might be knocked down and trampled. It was a horrible experience, but it ended as quickly as it began. Once beyond the Shop, the panic ceased, the workers resumed normal speed. Why they were slowing when the building had not yet been cleared I could not imagine; but, not wanting to appear out of step, I too slowed my gait.
As I soon discovered, the mass exodus had not been generated by panic at all. Rather, it was break time. Everyone got coffee and donuts and began puffing on cigarettes. By mistake, I pressed the wrong button on the machine and got beef bouillon, which I made the best of.
"No donut?" the woman who worked next to me asked.
"Not today," I said.
"So how you like it so far?" she asked, between puffs on her cigarette, sips of coffee and bites of donut.
"Pretty well," I said.
"What's you name, honey?"
"Roland. Roland Domby."
"Mine's Beulie. Actually Beulah, but they all call me Beulie. It's Mama Beulie, Grandma Beulie, Aunt Beulie, got a nephew even calls me Uncle Beulie! Real strange kid. Going on seven. Acts like a girl. Got his mama to buy him a wig, wears it like Veronica Lake, wears dresses. I suspect he wears his sister's panties, but it's none of my business. Well Ronald -"
"Roland," I reminded her.
"Yeah. Roland. Time to get back."
It was true that everyone was making for the Shop, but our break was not yet over and I suggested as much to Beulah.
"We have fifteen minutes, I thought."
"Sure do, Ronald -"
"Roland."
"Roland. Sure do get fifteen, but it takes three, moving slow, to get back to the belt. Belt starts off 10:30 exactly, and honey we better be there when it does! So let's mosey on back there Ronald while we got us a job to go back to!"
The work was tedious. I found it hard to concentrate on keeping the two forms of P&T's specialty separate. Before I realized it, I had let half a dozen of the one mingle with the other; luckily Blarney caught them in time.
"I won't report you this time," he informed me at lunch - he never spoke while on the assembly line - "but don't let it happen again."
"You like your work?" I asked him. It was difficult making conversation with him; he had a monumental reserve about him, and he invariably replied to my inquiries - when he replied at all - in monosyllables.
"Sure," he said, a look of puzzlement on his face that anyone would think to ask such a strange question. I mentioned this to Beulah, who explained that Blarney could not conceive of anyone not liking his work. We were in line getting dessert, and as Blarney, I'm told, never ate dessert in his life, we were out of ear shot. Not that the cafeteria was big: it was little more than a lunchroom, with a row of machines dispensing sandwiches, beverages, pastries, and a microwave oven for warming things up. The only thing big about the cafeteria were the roaches. In fact I complained to Mr. George about them later at afternoon break. He told me the company's research lab had done studies which tended to put roaches in an entirely different light.
"They ain't the vermin folks think," he said. "Our studies show they're actually very tidy little critters. They provide a valuable service here: they clean up the garbage. Now your Health Departments: they don't see it that way. We got us a temporary injunction halting their order to clean up the place. Our studies are very clear, and we'll have our day in Court, though it might be years. We're still on what's called the Docket. That's the little platform where the Judge keeps impending cases till they can be either suspended or defended or thrown out. We're asking a loco-motion sui janetress, don't you see. We're suing our cleaning lady for some unspecified misdemeanor. Now she passed on some years ago, but her heirs in contempora still got the missing missing meats at home in a freezer; the freezer door's been sealed by the Clerk of Court and can't no one tamper it loose or pry it open till all this is settled."
"Won't the meats spoil?" I asked.
"This could become an issue," he admitted.
I would have liked to have learned more about the company's legal strategy, especially since I would visit my own lawyer Thursday, and it seemed a good idea to get some notion of the law first; but our break was over so I had to return to work. I was a little late. The belt had already started; there was Blarney, trying valiantly to keep the two forms separate at the same time he examined them for consistency. "Sorry I'm late," I apologized. Just then Beulah had a fit of sneezing, which resulted in her getting choked. While she gagged and tried to get her breath I tried to help out with her end of the job, simultaneously keeping my end up. This put all the more pressure on Blarney, who, unbeknownst to me, had a case of arthritis. Evidently he had overdone; his fingers tightened up on him till he could barely take hold of the forms.
"Son 'd bitch!" he kept crying over and over. "Son 'd bitch! Son 'd bitch!" No one had ever heard him talk on the line before. Everyone stopped what they were doing momentarily to stare at him: this only made things worse, for it threw the whole assembly line three to four seconds ahead of schedule, which though it doesn't sound like much, resulted in absolute chaos.
To make up for lost time, once they realized what they had let happen, everyone tried to speed up - with disastrous results. Not used to any other pace than the one they had now gotten out of sync with, they pursued their new pace with exaggerated vigor, but so ineptly as to give the appearance of panic-stricken looters after a great calamity. They were grabbing their materials like wild men and women, and before anyone knew it they were engaged in a melee of hurling, twirling, scurrying and, most of all, just plain old butter-fingers' dropping everything they got their hands on, till every form coming down the line ended up someplace other than where it was destined. Some of the ladies, sensing how horribly out of control things had gotten, began screaming. Some of the men began cursing, one or two actually took to fisticuffs, even name calling.
"Get your turds out of my face, creep!" yelled one.
"Not till you take your poop out of my pocket - it don't go there, jerk!" another yelled back.
Then they were at it, tooth and nail, human forms flying everywhere. One was knocked onto the assembly belt and, before anyone could get him off, was carried right to the automatic boxer where only a last minute leap on his part saved him from being shipped piecemeal COD to P&T's outlets all over the country. Just then, the shop in shambles, in walked Mr. George.
"Holy shit!" he cried in alarm. "What the hell sewer broke loose here, you rats? What do you think you're doing, huh? You think P&T pays you good money to turn this place upside down? Looks like a God-damn outhouse here! The big boys upstairs are going to hear about this alright! Your butts are all going out of here for this! You God-damn maniacs, what with Christmas coming up not long off, and nobody nowhere in this great land'll have Tiddley-Turds to put under his tree or Piddley-Poop in his stockings! Have you gone stark raving mad, all of you, all at once? Huh? Huh? Have you?"
"You goin' raise a stink over this, Mister George?" somebody asked.
"Am I goin' raise a stink, you say? Mister, I'm goin' raise a stink around here'll make you all wish you were living in a cesspool, I am! You got that, huh? You got that? Now who the hell started all this?"
Everyone agreed. Everyone, at once, pointed my way. "He did!" they all cried in unison.
"Mister," Mr. George approached and screamed almost in my ear, "get your ass out of here! You're fired!"
I bid my fellow workers a fond adieu and departed, a little wiser, a little older, a little sadder perhaps - but glad as hell to be out of there. I'd worked hard, I'd done my best, I had fulfilled my ambition. I had gone among the common man, had studied him up one side and down the other. I was in no danger of ever ending up like the peddler whose tale of woe had brought me here. My work would never suffer for lack either of depth or of vitality. Or of being true to reality.
Having gained a greater insight into the nature of humanity at P&T, however brief the experience may have been, I was ready at last to begin my novel. Naturally I needed a day to rest up after the experience; besides which my plumbing had gotten out of order. Every time I turned on the kitchen faucet the entire sink began to rumble. Who could concentrate on great literature with such as this going on? So I called a plumber, who fixed the sink as best he could, explaining how it was virtually impossible to set such shoddy goods to rights.
"Poorly made?" I asked.
"Piss-poorly!" he replied. "Mass production. Cheap materials. Poor management. Worthless. Give me an outhouse any day to what they turn out."
"It so happens," I pointed out, "I know a little something about mass production, assembly lines, raw materials and the like. And let me tell you, sir, the fault lies not in management but in labor. All they care about is their coffee break, their lunch, and going home. If the workers of this great nation paid a little more attention to their jobs and a little less to their paychecks, we'd all be a lot better off!"
The plumber shook his head, as if doubting what I had just imparted to him. But then, he is after all a worker, so of course he is obliged to take up for his fellow workers.
"Now it is true," he admitted, "your brick masons are rather like that. They're the most overpaid lot on earth, if you ask me. But that's just one man's opinion."
At least my sink was relatively quiet; so, the plumber gone, I sat down to work, when all of a sudden the telephone rang. It was my very good friend, the printer.
"Donegal," he started out.
"Domby," I corrected him. "Roland Domby. And I don't believe I got your name the other day," I suggested.
"No, you didn't. Listen Domby, I just talked to my friend - you remember the publisher? Well, he's very anxious to see you. In fact, I tried to call you yesterday."
"I couldn't hear anything for my sink," I explained.
"Anyway, he wants you to drop over, soon as possible. He's all excited about your book. Says he hasn't seen anywhere near enough unknown authors lately - says he was half afraid there were no more. Says you made his day. How soon can you get over there?"
"I'm practically out the door already. Just tell me where to go."
My friend gave me the address. The building was right downtown. Timpony House: the entire building belonged to the publisher. His offices were on the fourteenth floor of this granite Florentine structure. The main lobby was marble, a pinkish gray, with golden crystal chandeliers and a red carpet. Even the elevator was elegant, its design French provincial. The button chimed when I pressed it. There was even an elevator operator, something of a rarity nowadays.
"Are you a writer or an agent, sir?" the operator asked.
"An author," I replied. I do not care too much for the term "writer," nor for that matter do I care to have menials inquire into my private affairs.
"Fourteen, sir," he said and let me out. I was immediately in the principal offices of Timpony House Publishing Company: no other concern occupied this floor, so no corridor was needed, no doorways, just the reception room.
"You must be Mr Domby," the receptionist surmised. I acknowledged my identity with a nod. "Please go right in, Mr Timpony is expecting you."
I hesitated a moment, giving her a chance to precede me to Timpony's office and open the door; evidently, though, the staff was poorly trained in proper protocol. She did not budge from her seat.
"You may go in now, sir, if you like," she reiterated her previous statement. I had no choice but to admit myself. I tapped very lightly upon the door, a solid oak door, and went in.
A man, quite tall, patrician in demeanor, slightly graying at the temples, with a very big face and rather thick jowls but with a very fine nose and a thinly set mouth, was in the middle of the room, fumbling in his pockets for something. "Ah, it's you!" he exclaimed when he looked up and saw me. "Welcome, welcome, welcome - it's Domly, isn't it?"
"Actually, Domby," I corrected him.
"Of course, of course," he saw at once his mistake. "It's not the letter after the L but the second letter after! I'm of course stunned how closely your name resembles the famous stereophonic company. The name escapes me just now though."
"Dolby, I think you mean."
"Dolby?" he tried the name for sound. "Dolby. Hmm. I wonder. That may be it. Yes, that may be it. Dolby. And your name is more like Dolby than Donkey, isn't it?" I said yes, it was. He professed being rather relieved at that. "I do not care for names too near those of animals, or plants either. And parts of the body I simply refuse to associate with. If a Mister Heart, let's say, or a Miss Foot comes calling, I'm out. I'm always out. The risk is too great. One might come down with a malaise affecting that very part. Why chance it? So," he resumed after a slight pause, "you're an unknown writer. An excellent profession, Domby. Excellent. Pays well?" he asked.
"Not at first," I replied.
"Takes time to get good at it," Timpony pointed out. "So, what can I do for you?" he asked.
"Well, you're about the best publisher in the business -"
"Yes," he interrupted. "There's some truth to that. Publisher: you did say publisher, didn't you?" I acknowledged it. "Yes, I am. A publisher, yes, certainly, the best in the business. Timpony is the name of my company. I'm not entirely sure where the name originated. You looked like you were getting ready to ask about the name," he explained. "We publish," he groped for an antecedent. "Uhm, uhm. We publish...uhm.,.."
"Books," I completed his thought for him.
"Books?" He seemed skeptical. "Books? Are you sure of that?"
"Absolutely sure."
"Books, eh. Why would we be called Timpony then, I wonder?"
"Perhaps it was named for you," I suggested.
"That is my name alright. But the company was already here before me. You've presented me, sir, with a puzzle."
"Perhaps it was named for your father."
"The company was here even before him."
"Or your grandfather."
He scratched his head over that. "He did found the company, my grandfather. But what made him think the name Timpony had anything to do with books, I wonder? He was a strange man. Seems to me he used to have these odd looking things he would look at and while doing that recite all manner of stories. A very clever man. I think he published mostly books too. So did my father. I really don't know the ins and outs of the business all that well; I kind of let it take care of itself. We have a new manager. When we merged with the American Computer Chip Corporation - ACCC - they sent their staff over to help out. Excellent managers. I'll have to introduce you someday."
Having finished his explanation, he put his hands back in his pockets. He wore loose fitting trousers, and a camel hair blazer. For a moment he stared at me, as if trying to place me.
"Did I offer you a drink?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
He went back to staring. "You have a book there in your pocket?" he asked. I said no, I didn't. Indeed it would have been a small one, had I had one: barely a novella, nothing like the massive work I intended.
"Oh," he said, a bit disappointed. "We've talked so much of books lately, I rather wanted to see one, just to get a good idea in my mind what it is we're talking about. It always helps to see, feel and in other ways sense things. It's the best way to do business. That way we could be talking about a book and I could have one right in front of me so I'd know what you mean. I don't have what you'd call good abstract reasoning; I need the thing before me in concrete form to truly appreciate its import. But," he looked around the room, "as I don't see one handy, I'll just have to imagine what they look like."
"There's one," I directed his attention to his desk, "right over there." On his desk sat a dictionary.
"That? Oh no, I believe you're wrong," he informed me, "that's a paper weight, I'm pretty sure."
"Still," I insisted, "I think you'll find it is a book."
"You may be right. It could be. A book, you say? not a paper weight? I just don't know. I wish dad were here, he'd know. He's good at telling what things are; got a very quick mind. He'll walk in - he's of course elderly now, well past fifty, doesn't get to the office much anymore, spends winters in Acapulco, summers in Norway - but he'll walk in, and inside of five minutes he can identify - and name! - everything in this office! I don't see how he does it, at his age. I guess it runs in the family. His father - my grandfather: ah! now there was a man of genius! He could walk into a room and he'd know in a flash what all was there. And he: he could identify a book just like that! You could place a book all the way across the room, in with some other debris, I don't care how carefully you hid it, and he could go right up to it. Pick it out every time. My father's seen him do it. That man was born to the publishing business. Quite a marvel, he was."
He returned his hands to his pockets. After a pause he again turned to me. "I'm sorry you won't have a drink," he said. "If you like, if you're not sure yourself, I'll have my secretary come in and we can check with her if that is a book on my desk." I agreed to this. He called her in.
"Miss Swat," he asked, "can you tell us please what is that item on my desk, the one standing upright just to the right of my wife's picture?"
"It's a dictionary, sir," she replied.
"And that would make it: a book, would you say?"
"Yes, I would say."
"Well, thank you, that'll be all, Miss Swat. We've already had drinks, so you won't need to bother."
He turned again to me, as if to prompt some speech from me. "How soon do you wish me to sign the contract?" I asked.
"Contract? Uhm, I'm afraid you've got the better of me," he admitted.
"That would be the paper we draw up indicating your willingness to publish my book," I explained, adding that it also stated the terms of our agreement.
"Is this standard practice?" he asked. He seemed rather interested. I told him it was. "Hmm," he mused. "I'll have to have my business manager look into it. I might have mentioned, he's from American Computer Chip Company - ACCC; they bought us out. Or did I dream that? because I'm still here, aren't I?"
"It sometimes happens that way," I said.
"Ah, that accounts for it."
"Well, until I can have my business manager look over the contract, you may as well go on back to the library - that is where you live, isn't it?"
I sort of shrugged, since, in truth, having spent so much time lately in the library, I felt almost a resident. We exchanged pleasantries and I left.
Wednesday was about as uneventful as a day can be. Even the greatest author could make no story of such a day. There was one bright spot though. I received my monthly issue of Science, Business and Politics. I always look forward to that. Every issue is a gem, but this month the editors had outdone themselves; they had put together an array of articles not only of inestimable importance to mankind but of particular relevance to me, as a keen observer and gifted transcriber of human affairs.
Page 1, first article: fabulous - fabulous! Its author, a certain Professor Myriad Sparkle (female, I presume) took that position that nature was slowly being evolved out of American society. "Above the Fruited Plane": her title suggested in its subtle play on words what her brilliant analysis made explicit, namely, that we as a people had moved beyond the natural plane, where our every action had been proscribed by natural law, to a higher plane, one best characterized, in her own words, as "Fruitless" (again, a brilliant play on words). "There are no fruits and nuts up here," she posited, "only bolts and nuts," the point being that technology had made traditional concepts of social organization obsolete. No longer did or need humanity conduct itself around a core of natural phenomena, such as hunting or gathering food; instead, we were able now to compel the earth to yield its treasures. We grow our own food; we were not dependent upon "prior availability," nor upon "organic renewal." What nature did randomly and without intelligence we now did purposefully, deliberately, rationally. This, Professor Sparkle explained as being why we stood on the brink of a new era, wherein all the old ideas of society would "drop one by one from our textbooks like so much decaying fruit onto a barren plain." Brilliant deduction, and absolutely indisputable. No rational person could find fault with anything she said.
Page 30, second article: superb! Written by the celebrated economist, J. J. Wizzbang-Abu, there was here a muted hint of vast economic growth just ahead, followed by a millennium of tranquility. War and disease, he showed to be reflections of unsound economic principles. "When society learns to stand aside while those with the ability to make money do their thing, the material well being of all mankind will rise to such a level that neither bacteria nor hysteria will be able to reach it." He speaks metaphorically, I assume; but all the more poignantly for it. No great entrepreneur ever forgot the people whose efforts helped him achieve success: Wizzbang-Abu makes it quite clear that whatever appears to be an instance of exploitation, when seen close up, becomes instead an example of what he terms "Incompleted Dynamism"; that is to say, some outside force - such as government intervention - disrupted the dynamic sequence of events generated when the entrepreneur began his enterprise. Without this disruption, in time the wealth created would have trickled all the way down to those people at the bottom. "It may have taken a lifetime or two or three," he points out, "but it would have been well worth the wait." Who could argue with that?"
Page 87, third and final article: truly the piece de resistance! No less a figure than an up and coming politician, Rosemary "Rosie" Vaughan, one of the "new breed" of politicians, an ingénue from the far west, penned this little gem of an essay. "Politics By Any Other Name..." she titled it, beginning by completing her title"...waxes as powerful as ever." Indeed, her entire premise reinforces that very point, for, as she shows, power is still "where it's at": getting it, keeping it, using it. The aim of politics is, and just as it always has been, so it evermore shall be, maintaining the self-interest of those in power as well as those they serve. Privilege: that too, "the name of this game." But, as she makes crystal clear, "You too can have privilege. Simply attend all the fund raisers; lay your hundred-dollars on your dinner plate; go up to your politician at cocktails, speak to him, bend his ear a little your way, don't be reluctant to make your presence felt, don't sit back discussing Acapulco or St Moritz while others are busy looking after their interest: he's there to serve you too, that's why he accepted the host's invitation in the first place." As she so succinctly puts it "The cocktail party is perhaps the last vestige of democracy left to us. So make use of it. The next time Prissy-Prissy invites you to cocktails - Black Tie, RSVP - don't pass up an opportunity to make your voice heard just because you'd rather jet to Vale for a weekend ski: Go Man Go!" I'll remember that.
Of course, there was more to the issue than simply three great articles: there were all the regular features: "Techno-Tits," advice to buxom computer operators on everything from makeup to hooking a computer analyst; "Wingy Singles," for unmarried jet-setters; "Chips and Dips," which monitored each month the progress - or lack of it - of silicon chips stocks and bonds; and a host of other features. Nor were the articles as lengthy as the pagination would suggest, since every few pages of rhetoric gave way to at least a couple pages of full-color ads. Each month I look forward to this journal; and as the day wore on - lo and behold! - I fell asleep in my chair reading. In that way an uneventful day got over with.
Wednesday passed to Thursday, the day I was to meet with my attorney - anything but an uneventful day! I took a taxi to 8th Avenue; the driver was thoroughly obnoxious.
"Ohh-la-la!" he exclaimed when I gave him the address. "Going whoring, eh?" he then had the effrontery to ask.
"I'm going to see my attorney!" I replied indignantly.
"Yeah? Well, when you see him, say hello to my Aunt Fanny while you're there!" Heaven only knows what he meant by that, for I didn't care to ask. When I had paid him and was getting out, he advised getting a "condom" before I went into see my attorney. I gave him, as his tip, the cold shoulder, and nothing more.
I could tell right away what had prompted his inexcusable behavior: 8th Avenue is the very heart of our "red light" district. However, I cannot imagine him or anyone else supposing me to be a frequenter of such a section. I had never been here before; and, after the taxi pulled away, in retrospect I regretted not having told him I was an artist - an author: this surely would have convinced him right away I didn't belong here. But it was too late; he would just have to go on thinking me a degenerate instead of an inspired vehicle of higher truths, a man of great sensitivity.
The building I sought was surrounded on either side, and across the street as well, by a host of disreputable establishments: to the left, a striptease joint; to the right, a massage parlor; directly across, a pornographic theater and bookstore; and, farther up the street, a place advertising "live male strippers" (evidently women came here too). I was relieved to get off the street and inside the building.
"Third floor," I told the elevator operator. On the way up, he offered to provide me, for a small fee, "the girl of my dreams" for one hour.
"To photograph," he explained. Then he winked. I simply ignored him. "Third floor," he announced and, as I was departing the elevator, added that he could also provide 'the boy of my dreams," also for a small fee, also "to photograph"; again, he winked.
Thoroughly scandalized, I made for Suite 301, with the additional aim, now, of reporting the elevator operator to my attorney, who undoubtedly would know how best to handle the matter. I identified myself to the receptionist, a pretty young woman wearing much too much makeup and much too low-cut a dress for so prestigious a firm as Boulish and Beerish. Given the location, I could not help thinking for an instant I had mistakenly entered a "flop house," particularly in light of the most inappropriate decor of Suite 301. The colors red and purple predominated, with a generous mix of black and white; nothing subdued, no beige or gray. Where there was pattern, such as the sofa in the reception room, zigzag was it. A most bizarre introduction to our legal system.
"Elgee, oh Elgee," the receptionist purred seductively into the intercom; I was embarrassed for my attorney. "There's a very sexy gentleman here to see you. Says his name is Roland Domby. I think he might be the actor you're defending: 'Donkey Hunk.' Got on a nice trench coat, Elgee. Maybe when you're through discussing his case, he and I can sneak off and...discuss it a bit ourselves. Bye-bye Elgee. For now."
Turning her face to mine, she whispered "You can go in now, Mr Donkey. And you can...come in later, too."
I was too incensed to point out to her the error in who I was and why I was here; I simply went on in to my attorney. Before I had a chance to open my mouth, Elkins started right in.
"Sit down, Domby," he offered me a chair. "Look," he said as I was being seated, "they haven't got a case against you - okay? They can't prove she was under age, film or no, so they can't prosecute. Just leave everything to me. The little lady's safely out of the country. I will have to get your release on this, however -"
Here I cut him off. "Pardon me, but I'm afraid you seem to have gotten me confused with another client," I explained.
"You don't star in porno films?"
"Indeed not!"
"Oh, my mistake," he apologized. "Then of course you're not 'Donkey Hunk,' he reasoned, appropriately.
"I most certainly am not!" I said.
"Yeah," he studied me a moment; "I should have known from the ears. Plus, he would be, I think, a little shorter than you. He's actually a rather small man, considering his...attributes, shall we say. His medial range appendages - or, make that singular. Quite singular I'm told. Well, no matter, I'll get the charges dropped. Which, my good man, brings us to you: just who the hell are you?"
He spoke good naturedly, so I was reluctant to find fault with what he said, though it did tend to rub me the wrong way. Nevertheless, any attorney recommended by my literary agent must certainly be above reproach. "Your brother-in-law recommended you," I explained. "My name is Roland Domby, and I'm -"
"Domby," he mused, cutting off my identification of myself as an author. "Domby - where have I heard that before? No wonder Slushie - that's my receptionist - mistook you for a porno star, is it, with a name like that? Oh yes - oh yes of course: Domby! Roland Domby! Of course! The entrepreneur! Yes, of course. Please forgive my poor recollection. My brother-in-law told me all about you when he made the appointment. Domby - of course! Roland Domby - how could I have forgotten? My most important client! Well, sir, please have a seat, and let's get to work!"
I seated myself a second time (I had risen during our previous conversation, so agitated was I at his mistaking me for this Donkey person). I did not care for the decor of his office; it primarily continued the scheme of his outer office, a bit too gaudy, unsuitable to an attorney, of all people - somebody so intimately concerned with truth and justice: with the law. I did not feel comfortable in this office.
"Okay," Elkins explained in a cheerful voice, "we'll incorporate you right away! I've got the papers already drawn up. All we need is a good, catchy name for your enterprise. Since you're a Roland, and you're a Domby -"
Here I interrupted him. "Is it customary to incorporate?"
"My God man, where have you been? Customary? Hell, man, it's absolutely inevitable! You can't hope to accomplish one earthly thing till you've been incorporated!"
"But for my enterprise, I'm not sure it's necessary," I tried to point out. This rubbed him the wrong way.
"Hey," he retorted, "you trying to tell me how to run my business?"
"No, it's just -"
"It's just shit! That's what: it's just shit! So let's stop clowning around and get these papers drawn up so Sloshie can get her butt - and what a butt, eh? - in here to witness it. I could get her to notarize it too -"
"She's a notary?"
"Among other things. Trouble is, it's not quite legal, having the notary witness the signing too. Oh, what the hell - who's gonna know? I'll just have her use an alias when she witnesses it."
"Is that a good idea?" I inquired, ever solicitous of legal etiquette.
"You got a better one?" Elkins rejoined. I told him no. "Then let's do it, baby, and do it now!"
He called in his receptionist. "Hey doll," he said when she entered, "got a job for you." Sloshie glanced at me and began licking her lips in a most seductive manner. "Get serious, floozie!" he reprimanded her - and high time the young lady was reprimanded, in my opinion. "I want you to witness this," he told her. She made no move to sign the document. "Well?" he asked.
"I'm ready when you are," she replied. "Go ahead, do what you're going to do, I'll watch."
He shook his head. "Jeez what a broad! Look, floozie, I just want you to sign this so's Domby - and, baby, that Domby, not Donkey! - here can get his corporation going."
"Ooh," she turned to me, "an entrapperer," she said.
"Entrepreneur," Elkins corrected her. "Just sign it - only don't use you real name. Make up one."
"I know what I'll do," she said, "I'll use the one I used when we signed the guest register." She wrote "Mrs. John Smith." "There," she announced, "all witnessed."
"Good," said Elkins, "now notarize it."
"Shouldn't we sign first?" I asked.
"Nah, we can get it any old time," Elkins replied. Sloshie withdrew from her bodice a small metal object - her notary's seal - and stamped the document.
"Oh dear," she said, "I always forget to change the date! I still have it set for last year."
"Don't worry about it," said Elkins, "just get back to work?"
When she had gone, Elkins signed the document and presented it to me for my signature. "It seems a bit unethical," I suggested.
"Just sign it, for Christ sake, and leave me worry about ethics!" Elkins insisted. So I signed. He is, after all, the expert in these matters: he's the attorney, he can straighten things out later.
"There," I said.
"Good. Now all we have to do is come up with a name for your enterprise. What I was thinking is this: we take part of your first name and combine it with part of your last name. How does 'Roldo" sound?"
I did not like that at all. "Okay, then," he said, "let's try Romby - how's that?"
"Better, but -"
"Okay. I've got it! Here's what we'll do: we'll take the 'R-O' from Roland, we'll add the 'D-O' from Domby and - so as not to have too faggy a name - we'll drop the 'M' and pick up the 'N' off your first name, which'll give us a nice, round, firm, good all-American name: Rodon! Rodon Enterprises, Incorporated. What do you say to that, slick?"
Darn if I didn't like it; and the more I repeated it to myself, the better I liked it. "Rodon - yes, Rodon. Rodon. Yes - yes indeed: it's perfect! I love it! I absolutely love it! It'll be the ideal name for me. Rodon. Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes!"
"Glad that's settled," said Elkins. Just then his intercom buzzed. "Yeah, doll."
"Mr Donkey Hunk to see you, Elgee - this time the real one. And if you want to change the 'K' to a 'G' in his name - you go right ahead!"
When I returned home, I found my book still staring me in the face, still in the place I had left it, still turned to the last entry I had made before abruptly leaving. The events of the past few days, as I quickly discovered, had severely disrupted my train of thought - in truth to the point of having all but destroyed it.
"Where did I leave off? What was to follow? Where was it all taking me? These junctures, junctures, junctures everywhere; these seams, where one passage, written last week, must be made to adhere to one just started, and it in turn to one not yet conceived - what of them? And what of my themes? Seams and themes: what of them?"
These were my thoughts as I sat before my desk. My head was spinning. "Too much excitement," I realized. Creativity requires quiescence. "And too many people." Art requires solitude. Here I had gone out among my fellow man seeking inspiration when, all along, it was in here, waiting, watching like some "thing" behind a hazy membrane, just watching, and waiting.
And what, in a week's adventures, could go into a great novel? Could a Honkey Donkey fill a chapter, a page, so much as an inch of copy? Impossible! Or a Beulah with a nephew who doubles for Veronica Lake? Never! Or a street peddler who, from too close an association with humanity, forgets where he had lain his manuscript? I hardly think so! None of it even approached the stuff of art; none of it.
"A wasted week," I was forced to conclude. "Save for the furtherance of my career." I allowed for that much worthwhile to count my new acquaintances - publisher, printer, agent, attorney - on the plus side at least. Still, I could have met them, arranged for their services, without being encumbered by the rest. On balance, a wasted week.
And not a single idea to show for it. Nothing anywhere near strong enough to stand the weight of a great novel. Not one theme further than what I already had.
I scratched my head. "Ouch!" I cried. I had evidently picked up a scalp sore from someplace, and here I went and picked it with my fingernail. What a damnable world! Just because a great work of art requires ideas, theses, stories, characters and the like, a man full of earnest, eager to create a masterpiece, must scratch at his head, as though he were an animal rooting at vegetation, in a vain attempt to get at the vast storehouse of genius within.
"The ideas just aren't ready to come forth yet," I concluded. I accepted my plight with characteristic Stoicism; and went in the bathroom to apply mercurochrome to my injured scalp.
Of all things in this universe, fate is the subtlest; she works her ironies in the most religiously unpredictable manner; she comes in stealth, goes with great flourish; but always she remains aloof: her own lady. I could speak volumes of fate, but what good would it do? My task is to describe humanity, its goals, its gains, its setbacks, its shortcomings; leave fate to others.
Here, right before me, where I had left it this morning, was my latest copy of "Ficto-Phile," the literary journal I receive quarterly. I had not gotten beyond the first short story when I set it down. So I picked it up to resume reading it. A magnificent journal, privately published, with a maximum readership of 500, it has been acclaimed by virtually every major critic of this century. The fact that few have heard of it only increases its worth.
I don't know what made me turn to the back, but I did. Here was the "Want Ads": a variegated mixture of for sale items, job opportunities, services, courses of study. Even tee-shirts with every imaginable quotation printed on the front, and they come in red, black, powder blue, tan or yellow, combed cotton and polyester, a divine fabric, one of man's crowning achievements, polyester. I wear it whenever possible.
What caught my eye was a forlorn looking for sale notice at the bottom of the page. (The rest, as my gentle reader is now discovering, is history.) It read like this: "For sale to would-be novelist: one superstructure with underpinnings. Best offer." There was a person to contact and a place: "see Job at 2001 S. Odyssey Row." Even more amazing, considering "Ficto-Phile" is published in the far West and accepts ads worldwide, this address was not only in the very city where I lived but just a few blocks away! I could walk there in fifteen minutes. And to think: if I hadn't picked up this journal off the toilet seat - or, indeed, had I not had the great good fortune to have seen it advertised in the Writer's Digest in the first place - I would never have known of this unique piece of merchandise. Not that I put too much store in something someone else has created - after all, if it were of any great value, why would it be up for sale? but simply that I am by nature an omnivore, and tend to see value in almost everything, even those things which other would pass by without noticing. Such is the nature of an artist.
I clipped the ad and left. It was a blustery day, at least not rainy though. I live very close to the business district, in one of the better parts of town; between my apartment building and the address on Odyssey Row was the heart of our financial center. We call it Wall Street, though it is technically Liberty Throughway, a stretch of tall buildings, elegant restaurants, very chic shops tucked inside office buildings, a place where doormen abound and chauffeurs can be seen lounging beside limousines, where three-piece business suits are, not merely traditional, not merely required attire, but almost in the way of being uniforms. I am always pleased to pass that way, for, of course, the True Artist cannot but appreciate the finer things of life. If by night it's the Opera or the Ballet, by day its Liberty Throughway: like attracts like.
I had forgotten what day this was; neither had I checked my mail the past few days or I would have discovered the note reminding me. I no sooner rounded the corner than there they were, out in force, marching, carrying signs, chanting slogans. Businessmen had assembled from far and near; a sea of three-piece suits swept like a gyrating ribbon through the street. Old Liberty Throughway, once again, as on this day every year, emptied its buildings; the street, blocked to traffic, caught the overflow.
This was the annual I Hate Nature Day Parade. A huge banner draped from the fifteenth floor of the Americas Building, where each floor was named for a State of the Union, proclaimed this year's theme: "Parks - Schmarks: Who Needs 'Em?" Targeted for immediate reclamation was the Odesseus Preserve, the biggest in our city, where it was reported that ground hogs, shrews, squirrels, rabbits, opossums and other vermin had been recently introduced, and where a thoughtless city administration had initiated a plan to double the number of trees and shrubs by the end of the decade. The Preserve stood in the way of the final section of freeway, which, it was estimated, upon completion, would triple the flow of commence into and out of our city.
"Give us jobs, not junipers!" one placard read.
"Down with dung!" read another. I recognized the carrier of that sign as a stock broker I dealt with occasionally; on our last meeting he complained of having stepped on dog leavings traversing the park. A deplorable happenstance.
"Your money or your maples!" another sign proclaimed.
"Give us Liberty or give us lint!" yet another said. "Liberty," of course, being the new freeway, which would connect with and, presumably, be named as an extension of Liberty Throughway.
Each sign was equally clear. I stayed as long as I could to give moral support to these exponents of free speech; but I had appointments to keep, so I moved on.
"You don't believe in freedom, I take it," a voice from an alleyway addressed me. At least I assumed it was addressed to me; there was nobody else around, and the voice was quite loud.
"I beg your pardon?" I replied, somewhat indignantly at such a suggestion, made to me of all people. The alleyway was dark, but certainly not dirty, nor did any unpleasant odor seep from its interior; this was, after all, the better part of town, the rear of three of our finest office buildings opened onto the alley. There were no bums here, no street walkers. It would have been the height of rudeness to ignore whomever had spoken.
From the shadows the buildings cast stepped a very well dressed gentleman, in a charcoal gray three piece suit, wing-tip shoes, tie and handkerchief coordinated and a fine beaver hat. He approached and introduced himself; a very firm hand shook mine.
"Weaver Wayne Arnold," he gave his name.
"Roland Domby," I said mine.
"So pleased to meet you, Domby," he then said. Sincerity was everywhere about him, especially in his voice, as firm as his handshake. "Please excuse my abrupt accusation," he explained, "but, as you seem to be leaving the profession, I naturally assumed you were uninterested in personal liberty. Perhaps I misjudged you?"
"Indeed so," I replied. "Liberty is of all things most dear to me. And I would never have passed by without staying had I not an extremely important meeting to attend."
"Business?" Arnold inquired.
"Of the most pressing sort," I assured him.
"Excuse me, but I was under the impression that business activity had been suspended for the afternoon, to allow professionals the opportunity to express themselves. Why, even the Stock Exchange closed early. Where might your business be?"
I explained where I was headed and for what purpose; I even showed him the advertisement.
"So you're an author," he said. I nodded in the affirmative. "And you are seeking ideas for stories?"
"Ideas, themes, plots, characters - all the accoutrement needed for a great novel. "Of course," I thought it only right to point out, "I do not intend taking my ideas second-hand. But, as I'm sure you realize, the True Artist leaves no stone unturned."
"Upturned - I think you mean 'upturned.' The expression is more in that vein," he pointed out. "It derives from my namesake, the great critic Matthew Arnold's 'Tombstone Theory.'"
"Is that 'Tombstone' or 'Touchstone'?" I asked. He laughed. I do not as a rule like it when others mock my seriousness; however, he was such a gentleman that he could not possibly have intended to give insult.
"How far along are you on your novel?" he asked.
"Still the first volume," I said.
"Ah, it's to be three volumes, then - like the British novels of the last century?"
"This was my original intent, yes," I replied.
"Having trouble though with characters and what-not?"
"Oh, you know how it is: touch of writer's cramp - in this finger." I showed him the callous on my middle finger.
"Yes," he seemed to be musing, "the force of genius sometimes turns on the merits of our knuckles." Then he spoke again directly to me. "I would advise you, sir, not to trouble your head with delving into the psyches of characters - a fruitless enterprise at best; nor with the working out of great themes; nor should you wrestle great ideas into submission - not when this has already been done, and done, by my reckoning, extraordinarily well. In a word, sir: poop or originality! The great masters have soiled the footpath aplenty before you, sir. Take what they have left behind, remold it, rework it, recreate their leavings in your own hand and style, sir. It's done everyday. And done to excellent advantage, sir - take my word on that!"
"Just a minute, sir," I felt obliged to protest, "though I like your idea, I admire the novelty of it, I applaud so bold an approach to art; still, sir, I cannot help but find in what you offer me just ever so little bit of plagiarism."
"Word - merely a word! No more," my gentleman friend defended himself most eloquently. "Sir, let me tell you this if no one has before, and if it has been said, let me reiterate: There is nothing new under the sun!"
It was like a bolt out of the blue, hearing this. And for those who would chide the American businessman, I would only ask that first they read again and again, and carefully, this man's words. "There is nothing new under the sun." Truly, as wise a thing as any man has before or since said.
"Profound," I whispered in great awe.
"I rather think so myself," he agreed. What an understatement!
"May I confess something to you?" I asked in confidence.
"Of course."
"As you know, sir, I am an author - by some accounts a very great one." He nodded at this. "And yet, sir, I am forced to admit: I could not have come up with so profound a statement as that! I humble myself before you, sir."
A veritable light came into his eyes: the light, I suspect, of truth itself. "Then you have never heard this said before, about there being nothing new under the sun?" I nodded no: for how could I have? I had never met this great gentleman before? "You know, my dear friend - may I be so bold as to call you a dear friend?" I nodded yes; I was most touched. "You know, as much as I do love that statement I made; still, seeing how deeply you relish it, and, especially, knowing how great your talent is, I am...well...I feel I should - no: must! I feel I must - yes, oh yes, dear heavenly father yes - I must - overcome my natural reluctance to hold onto it. It belongs, not to me, really, but to all mankind. And so, I must - I have no choice but to - part with it. My friend and brethren: it is yours. And - no, absolutely no! - I will accept not one single penny for it either! I simply won't hear of it. For though it may be worth a king's ransom, I will not ask a penny for it!"
In truth I had not thought to offer a penny for it; but, hearing his generous offer, I was struck with a sense of guilt. How could I take so valuable a thing as a gift without some measure of repayment? No one, least of all a great artist, could be so callous.
"I insist," I said as I drew out my wallet.
"No, I refuse," he persisted.
"Yes - yes - I insist!" I repeated.
"No," he too repeated.
"If you refuse," I said, "then, as God is my witness, so too do I refuse!" This softened his resistance.
"You make a very hard bargain, sir," he said sadly. "I simply cannot refuse this gift to my fellow man. And yet - to sell it? so precious a gift? for mere...money? Surely it would not be right - would it? For I'll leave it up to you, sir, of the two of us, you are by far the greater. If you see no impropriety in payment me two hundred dollars for it, then neither will I - or even two hundred-fifty - or even three hundred - or even should you say five hundred, I would not be able to refuse!"
Normally I don't carry that kind of cash on me, especially of late, when, my business taking me to so many shabby parts of town, thieves, muggers and pick-pockets are forever a hazard. As luck would have it, however, since today I meant to stay well within the confines of this, the business district, I had put a healthy amount of money into my wallet. One does not like to be caught short-handed in the company of decent people.
"Sir," I said, "I accept your challenge. So as not to overly offend your sensibility, though, I will offer you not one penny beyond two hundred! Here you are!"
"Very big of you," he said, still reluctant, I could tell, to accept it.
"I intend using it as my opening line," I proudly announced.
"At the front of the book - imagine!" He seemed pleased. Then he sighed so deeply it made me wonder if perhaps he had second thoughts about our deal. I inquired as much. "Oh no, no, no, not really. Not really. No, not really. Oh God, I do miss it though. I miss it already. So pure, so innocent a truth. I feel lonely - already lonely. You know what I'm going to do? I'll tell you. I'm going to take this five hundred dollars and buy as many volumes of poetry as it will purchase."
"Two hundred - you mean two hundred," I corrected him.
"What did I say?"
"You said 'five hundred.'"
"Oh greed, thy name is man!" he almost wailed. "I'm so greedy for good literature - almost to the point of obsession. But a deal's a deal. I'll just do without Eliot maybe. Or Cummings. Oh God."
What else could I do but offer him the three hundred more? No Eliot? No Cummings? (whoever they are.) I had to offer it. He refused of course; but I insisted. And in the end, justice was served. We parted the best of friends, he to comfort himself with poetry - Eliot, Cummings et al - I to begin my novel with his great truth. A bargain at any price.
I had to hurry right on, lest someone else get to Job before I did. Not that I expected a whole lot, or needed second-hand ideas; I was just curious.
Odyssey Row dead ends off Paragon Drive, which turns onto the Liberty Throughway Northern Extension. Though still part of the Richton District, still technically within our city's best section, Odyssey Row winds just to the outer fringes of Richton. Were it not for the dead end, I'm afraid the street would hardly suffice; one would hardly go there alone, on foot, for just beyond, lies the infamous Peebles Alley, one of the worst sections of town, if not the worst. Luckily a very high stone wall separates the two districts. Out behind the final dwellings on Odyssey Row - seven story brownstones - sets this great wall, nineteen feet high, I would estimate four feet thick, with a wrought iron bar embedded horizontally at the summit the entire length. This bar is said to be electrified, to discourage intruders from Peebles Alley.
Reaching 2001, I noted a slight oddness in the exterior. The brownstone had at one point been covered with tarpaper; it seems an eccentric had once owned the building. Though long since removed, the tarpaper had left a kind of imprint, a veil in the form of streaks suggestive of pleats, as if, especially from a distance, a huge drapery hung six stories top to bottom. This was perhaps the least desirable building in the least desirable part of Richton.
I went in, and there, on the mail drop of apartment 2001-K, was the name "Job." I rang the buzzer and was invited up. On the sixth floor I found apartment K. Before I could even knock, the door was flung open, and a pale, gaunt, bearded man said "Enter." I introduced myself and stated my business.
"I've come in response to this ad of yours," I said.
"Yes," he replied, perusing the ad, "I am Job. And my superstructure is indeed on the block, to the highest bidder. Do you care to see it, or will you bid sight unseen?"
"I would like to see it, Job," I told him. Without a word further, he made for his desk, an odd looking thing, of a gray sort of finish, shaped as much like a credenza as a desk, with cabinetry on top reminiscent of a china closet. In truth, the only certainty I had of its being a desk was the large sign above it which read "Desk" and had an arrow beneath the word pointing to it. As I looked around the room, to my great astonishment I discovered everything to be similarly labeled: the sofa, the coffee table, the bookcase, the television, even the rugs on the floor. Sensitive, suddenly, to my perusal, Job took a moment to explain the curious signs.
"What you see, my friend, is the havoc wreaked by realism."
This, I found almost offensive. I suspect he perceived my disgust.
"Let me explain," he said in a rich, mellow, quite lyrical voice. "I set about following the lead of those who have brought the novel to its present state of perfection. Realism was to be my guiding principle, its tenets my guideposts. Character, my god. Description, my ultimate goal. I would, as had my masters before me, depict reality in great, vital detail. Circumscription, my friend: to circumscribe the very nature of the world I live in, to portray through a thousand, a hundred-thousand, or a million minute, attentive renderings of physical matter, the reality surrounding me was my life's ambition. I would surround that which surrounds, fill up that which fills up, depict that which depicts; I would out-world the world. My friend, I nearly went mad. Detail, description, plot, character, themes: I thought I had them, but found myself theirs instead. The master became the slave. The artist a mere creation of his materials. What happened was this: for all the detail - and the greater the detail - the more hopelessly was the thing lost. The very essence of the thing has been squeezed out of it by my over-meticulous rendering of its aspect. By the time my novel was finished, I had crushed beyond all recognition what I wished to portray. I could barely lift my manuscript off the desk where it lay heaped. I feared for my floorboards: termites, from across the way, have managed to infest these buildings. They are relentless. In time they got to my manuscript. They ate it. They died a slow, agonizing death: strangulation. I managed to save only my outline. My...superstructure. As you see," he explained, lifting a notebook from his desk, "even it is dog-eared from their ravages. Nothing else remains of my project. Soon it too will disappear."
"Can't you start over?"
Here Job let out a wail unlike anything I had ever heard. A kind of shrieked moan. "Oh leave me be!" he cried. "Start over? When all I will do is again attempt the realistic portrayal of my world? Do you want me driven entirely mad? Haven't you heard me? It cannot be done! It cannot be done!"
"Then try another format," I suggested. "Naturalism." Again the same horrible shriek. "Romanticism then," The same cry. "Imagism." Again he wailed, this time even louder. I thought it best not to pursue this argument further, so I changed the subject. "These underpinnings you spoke of," I asked, "are they metallic?"
He burst out crying. He could barely speak. "Dear heavenly father, help me, they are! They are! It has come to that, where philosophical underpinnings have turned to iron! That's what happens when you try too hard to make your work real: everything about it turns real! Everything becomes what its description suggests, be it shape or texture or material or size or whatever! Your whole world becomes a living nightmare. The reality you sought to circumscribe circumscribes you. You, who would dictate, are enslaved forever. My desk," he pointed: "it was not like that before. The sign was not there. Neither any of this you see before you. Little by little, as I attempted to steal the identities of everything I encountered, these horrors stole upon me, until now I am surrounded by hideous, hideous, scrupulously detailed reality. I could not simply call a desk a desk, I had to describe it forward and back! Now it cries out to me day and night its name. It has gotten even: it has stolen my identity: my words!"
Job shook his head in sorrow. "No," he said, "I shall write no more. Nor shall I be needing this." He handed me his notebook. "Take it, pay me whatever you like, or nothing if you like. Just take it."
A little short on cash just then, I gave him fifty cents from loose change, thanked him, and left.
I thought a great deal about the two extraordinary purchases I made that day. Over and over I repeated, on the way home, so as not to forget it, the great truth I discovered in an alleyway: "There is nothing new under the sun." In fact, so fearful was I of losing track of it, that I stopped in someplace to borrow a pen that I might write it in Job's notebook.
I had taken a different route home, so as to avoid the "I Hate Nature Day" Parade; a longer way, but, owing to my embarrassment at not being alongside my friends in their moment of truth, a more sensible way. Besides which, I feared encountering the gentleman again in the alley and being asked to sell him his maxim back. Still well within my district, I passed the new shopping center recently erected as part of our downtown's refurbishment. Silicon Mall, it was named, in part for the immensity of glass used in its construction, in part because of its emphasis upon high technology. Intermixed with the shops and restaurants were stores specializing in computer and video equipment, as well as an elaborate auditorium displaying, hourly, the marvels of the new technology. I simply could not resist going in.
"The old technology," the moderator of the spectacle announced (for, luckily, I had managed to arrive just as it was starting), "dealt with the production of goods needed for human consumption. The new technology, in sharp contrast, produces services. Where once we thought we needed homes, clothing and the like to survive, we now tend to circumscribe our existence in different terms, or themes. We need information processing; we need data storage; we need entertainment circumstances: we need, in a word, the computer. We are not today as concerned as we were in the past with where people live - they may live where they choose; or what they wear - they have an immense freedom of choice in attire; or in what or when they eat - again, this is left entirely to the individual at his discretion. What does concern us today as a society is getting the proper data from the proper sources to the proper receptors. Today, without leaving your office, you can initiate, work out the details of, and close a multi-million deal. Computers, micro-waves, high speed sensors: these are the tools of today's world. And here, before you, is the purest expression of that great wonder which renders you such tools: high technology. So sit back, listen, watch, and enjoy."
The show was breathtaking. I cannot describe it, artist that I am, for no mere words could do it justice. I left that auditorium enthralled, and more determined to be part of the great happenings around me. I determined there and then to dedicate my life, my work, my energies to the coming world, the new world, the world of high technology.
On my way through the mall, I stopped at an Arcade and asked to borrow a pen. I wrote on my notebook's cover: "There is nothing new under the sun," thanked the attendant and started to leave when something caught my eye. One of the video games was called "Art for Art's Sake"; reading its directions, I discovered it consisted of a set of great masterpieces, in the background, and a tiny figure with a palette in the foreground, the object being to get the painter to hurl paint upon as many of the masterpieces as possible before the curator came and apprehended him. The curator carried two pieces of equipment: a Tapper and a Zapper, the former a device for rendering a protective coating over the paintings, the latter a gun for blasting the intruding painter. It was a race to see if the painter could paint each canvas before the curator Tapped it. If so, I would win another game; if not, I would be Zapped and the game would end. I tried it, but didn't get far.
"Great game!" I apprised the attendant on my way out.
"They all are," he rejoined. And I'm sure he was right.
I stopped for a coffee before I left the Mall, and perused Job's notebook. I didn't much care for it, and found nothing which seemed useful for my own project - not that I expected to, or would have made use of what I found anyway. Then, as I closed the book the words I had written on the cover again caught my eye. "Of course!" I exclaimed. "Of course! Why this is exactly what he meant by it! Of course!"
It occurred to me, very forcefully and with the stunning insight of sudden vision, that I was going about this whole project all wrong, and that that was why I had gotten nowhere. My job was not to conjure up whole reams of characters, or to create from nothing a story, replete with themes and underpinnings and the like, but to borrow these things instead: to take them from the great works of others. To think that I had had the key to it in my very hands but a week ago, in the form of the books I had borrowed from the libraries, and had let it go. Still, it was not too late to undo my great error. The libraries would be open for another hour before closing, so I hurried and got ready and, ordering up a taxi, made for the nearest branch.
"Ah! I see you've returned!" said the librarian as soon as she saw me, adding "For books, I bet!" There is truth to the axiom that greatness shows in a person, that such an individual stands out among others, and that once beheld he is never forgotten. I replied that yes, I was here seeking books - great books, full of great ideas, great characters, great themes, great plots, great passages.
"Where might they be?" I inquired. "Just point me to the section, for I will surely know what they are when I see them."
"Over there," she said, "in our 'Famous Books' section. Try the ones with black covers first," she suggested.
Just as I was on my way, a second librarian stopped. He had evidently overheard my conversation with his colleague. "Hold it right there," he advised. "Before you go looking through an entire shelf of volumes, I strongly recommend you consult our Microfilm reader. It's right over here, and in it we have listed every volume in this building." He led me to the reader and explained how it worked. As he turned it on, the big viewing screen lit up to reveal page after page of references; all I needed to do was keep the reel turning.
"Amazing," I said, stopping the reel at random to check a particular reference. "To think, every character ever created lies waiting in this machine."
"Not every character," came a voice from over my shoulder. I turned to find a lady with very thick glasses staring at me. The glasses made her eyes huge. Her hair was somewhat unkempt, but clean, and her attire spoke well of her station in life.
"I beg your pardon?" I said.
"You would do better to beg food on Liberty Throughway than pardon of me," she replied, rather cryptically I thought.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I am a go-between. I know where almost everything can be found. I overheard your remarks to the librarian, as well as your asides to yourself a moment ago. I surmise you are seeking props for a project, perhaps a book. Am I correct?"
"Yes, you are," I replied.
"Well, if it's characters you seek, I know where you can get them - real cheap. If you're interested."
"I can get my characters for free - from these books," I pointed out.
"Can you? I rather think not. Others have tried and failed before you. These characters are not malleable in anyone's hands but their creator's. They will not do what you wish of them, coax as you may. You will find your work a travesty, or at best a parody; catastrophe is all you can expect to achieve, with these characters. They will not adapt second-hand. Do not attempt an Omelet out of a Hamlet, or from Othello, Punchinello. It will not work. Lear-Schmeer: what's the difference? you ask. Do not put yourself in a position of finding out too late the difference. Cease this demonic quest here and now; turn this horrid machine off; let its names, dates and places return to the darkness where they live in wait for unsuspecting novices."
"Novice?" I said. I was incensed at her insensitivity. "You call me a novice? I, who am poised to stand alongside..." I groped momentarily for a name or two before fixing on "Eliot and Cummings."
"No, I do not think you a novice," she replied. "Which is why I made you the offer I did. Shall I give you the address?"
"Of course," I replied. "I intended to purchase my characters all along. I am, in truth, only here attempting to locate a good gourmet cook book. You mistook the musings of an artist always cognizant of his art, I'm afraid, for statements of intent. Your error, madam."
"Indeed it was," she acknowledged her mistake. Then she gave me the address and a name to ask for. We parted company, but not before she accosted me with yet another cryptic comment. "Try the Steak Diane," she said, winking as she said it. Who knows what she meant?
I must confess I have never before availed myself of a map. I thought I knew every place in our city fit to visit, and, indeed, as the events of the past couple weeks had shown, some which were unfit. But this address I had never heard of, and I was reluctant to take a taxi until I acquainted myself with the area. So I bought a map. From this perspective, our city was a most unique place; I was truly impressed with the layout of streets, the symmetry of intersections, the order and regularity of places of interest. And, right there, at G-9, was Otsego Court, just off Pumpian Way. It was in the Meer District, one of the older districts of town, but of almost historical significance since virtually the entire section had burned to the ground some seventy years ago in a flash fire said to have originated in an underground distillery. In those days it was known as Moonshine Alley, Pumpian Way the heart of the illicit trade. No one ever goes there nowadays; its buildings have become run down. Not a single "Point of Interest" is listed within the Meer.
"AEG Otsego Court," I informed my driver once I had familiarized myself enough with the area to summon a taxi.
"Yuck!" he muttered. I did not condescend to inquire what he meant by such a remark. "Well," he announced after a half hour's ride, "here you are. And you're welcome to it. Yuckey!" I gave that driver no tip.
In front of me was AEG. The buildings here were not identified in the usual way. Letters, not numbers, circumscribed their addresses. Mine was AEG. Next to it was AEI. Across the street was AFH. A screwball system if you ask me. I took a moment to stroll about, more or less to get a feel for this most unusual area of town. All the buildings were in a dreadful shape; none looked less than a hundred years old - yet they could not have been more than seventy. From the corner of Otsego and Pumpian a pungent, though not unpleasant, odor arose. Upon closer inspection I discovered a vinegar factory. And up the street was an abandoned bakery: this I knew from having read about it some months ago in the newspaper, though till now its exact location had been a mystery. Rats and roaches had found their way into petite fours; the Health Department had shut the place down, though its huge sign still remained. I would have thought shame would have brought the sign down; doubtless its owners, after their bankruptcy, settling the lawsuits, and paying the Courts, had no money left for this. "Peerless Bakery," the sign atop the building still read: and in an ironic way I suppose it was peerless. Farther up, and just across the street, was a pet wholesaler: "Doggie Kartel." They serviced retail outlets all over town; this was their headquarters. I don't know if they actually bred the dogs here or simply warehoused them.
Finally I had seen enough, so I returned to AEG. A hideous building. I fully expected something from above - a cornice or some loose roofing - to tumble down on my head, so I hastened to get inside, half fearing the door to rip from its hinges when I opened it. The door creaked as if it were coming off, but luckily it didn't. Inside was as dismal as outside. In fact, it looked like the building's exterior, merely reversed, as if I had stepped through to the rear facade. I thought of one of those building fronts one sees on old Hollywood movie lots. The same weather-beaten gray boards outside appeared, equally abused, to have somehow gotten inside; the same warping was in evidence; even the same bird splatterings. The flooring, an old tile, was more than yellowed, a sickly green, as of unusually fetid phlegm. Ahead was a staircase, the steps of which were chipped, some to the point of being drawn and quartered. I feared treading those stairs, but as the address given me - DIB - if I read the scheme correctly, seemed to be on the third floor, I had no choice. Needless to say there was neither elevator nor janitor to assist me. So I made the climb as best I could. Toward the end of the third floor hallway I found the apartment. I knocked. A wizened old man, very disheveled, opened the door.
"Y-y-yes?" he inquired.
"I am here to see one Gipsum Salts," I said. "Is he in?"
"He's in the b-b-bathroom right now," came the reply. "Would you care to wait outside? Or, if you like, his brother Epsom is available."
I began to puzzle over this old man's stutter and, unbeknownst to me, replied. "I'll s-s-see Epsom if you don't mind."
The man sighed. "I have no mind," he related. "None of us really do." I was shown in and introduced to Epsom Salts. The place was simply deplorable - and no wonder: it housed some twenty or so individuals, of varying ages and descriptions, all unkempt and scruffy looking. Dirt and debris were everywhere.
"Epsom Salts here old chap - and you must be Silly Jilly, come to take my late brother out of the bathroom."
"Silly Jilly?" I said. "No, I think not. Late? You said late? Your brother: late?"
Everybody laughed. "He ain't croaked - not yet!" someone called out. Again there was laughter.
"Indeed he ain't, old chap," Epsom assured me. "I merely meant to employ a euphemism. He's in there passing gas, actually, or trying to: it was his last assignment, you see. And since 'late' connotes 'passing,' I chose to make proper use of it."
"Assignment?" I asked. "You said 'last assignment?"
"That's where Silly Jilly comes in, old chap," Epsom explained. "He sought to create a story about a man who suffers intestinal gas pains incessantly. He selected my brother as his character, set him to work at the John, then left. Said he had to get funding for his project. Said he'd be back. Haven't seen the chap going on two years now. The rest of us have to do as best we can bathroom wise - rather sticky, what? That's why we hoped you were Jilly, so my brother could be released from his role."
"Why doesn't he just get off the John?" I asked.
"How?" Epsom in turn asked. Puzzled looks were everywhere.
Untoward sounds were coming from the bathroom. "Good show!" Epsom called to his brother. "Jolly good show! Stay in character a bit longer, old man, I'm sure Jilly'll be back any day now with his funds!" Turning again to me, Epsom said "This was to be his masterpiece, old Jilly's. 'Vindictiveness,' he called it. The entire novel took place at the bathroom door. The character was never seen. The first forty chapters were a description of his efforts at expulsion; the next eighty a flashback; the final three-hundred a brief treatise on mustard gas. He was planning a sequel: 'The Seeds of Discontent.' About raisons. We haven't seen him since. The man was a genius - absolute genius, I say old man!"
Epsom's explanation made me forget my question momentarily; but, as it turned out, the very nature of my business here prompted an explanation of why Gipsum Salts did not merely arise from the toilet. For a moment all was quiet, save for an occasional characterization beyond the bathroom door. I noticed everyone staring at me, something I did not care for, especially in such ill looking persons.
"A lady sent me here," I finally said. Actually, I could have remarked my presence here sooner had I not been occupied attempting to remember my previous question.
"With glasses, a French beret, and a corn cob pipe?" Epsom asked.
"Glasses, yes," I said. "But not the rest."
"Ah, then it was her alter-ego," Epsom speculated. Around the room all heads nodded in agreement.
"You know her?" I asked.
"Yes, she's our...I'm not quite sure what the term is."
"Agent?" I ventured. Everyone burst out laughing.
"No, hardly an agent. She receives no commission."
"But she is a sort of go-between?"
"Yes," said Epsom. "Perhaps more in the nature of a matchmaker. Or, even more nearly: a pimp. Still, that's not quite it either, for it isn't our bodies we sell, but our psyches. Perhaps just think of her as a medium, who in effect summons us up from the beyond. Yes: do try and think of it that way. And you're here, of course, to engage our services, I presume?"
"Actually, just...looking," I cautiously replied, not wishing to give Epsom an edge should bargaining be necessary. "I haven't made up my mind as yet what I'll do."
"But you need characters - for a novel I would conjecture - or you wouldn't be here - correct?" Epsom persisted.
Again I hedged. I could see I was dealing with no dummy. "I may get them elsewhere. A number of sources remain available. Or I might simply end up creating them from scratch, as I go. I just haven't decided et. Or I may go across town and use some people there as my subjects. I just don't know yet." I played it cool. My family has been in business for generations, at various business enterprises; so it's in my blood to avoid a bad bargain. Even so, I was not prepared for what I heard next. It may have influenced my judgment.
"Subjects?" Epsom repeated in a voice full of amazement, with perhaps a touch of indignation. He went to the bathroom door to inform his brother of my statement. "Gip - hey Gip, old man: we've got one out here worse even than old Jilly! This chap imagines we're to be used as any, what they call 'Real People,' might be! Fancy that!"
This outburst did more to get Gipsum Salts in character than anything yet. He passed and passed and passed on it. Epsom reported back to me that his brother was speechless. (I surmised that much already.) And as I looked about the room, I could see absolute confusion on every last face staring back at me.
"If you've come here, my good man, to insult us," Epsom said, "then I see very little chance of effecting any sort of deal for our services. If all you wish is 'people' on whom you can base your characters, you can find them on any street corner! We, however, are true characters, not merely entities subject to characterization. We do not serve simply as models. When you acquire our services, what you get is our very identities, and nothing less. Just as our bodies are pliable and can be shaped by any sculptor, our identities can be lifted clean out of us to be shaped by any writer's hands. We are Characters - do you understand, my good man? Characters. Our identities are not somehow our own. We were fine, or thought we were, till we moved to this neighborhood. Then, little by little, a transformation was wrought: a metamorphosis, if you will, so that now our identities have become loosened from our selves, very much the way a decal, moistened, slithers off its backing. While endurable, it is not a happy state of being, I assure you. But it is our fate. Whether mysteriously or through some as yet undecipherable technology, it is our fate. So do you wish our services or not?"
"What is your fee?" I asked.
"The fee is open to discussion," Epsom replied.
I liked the sound of that. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I contracted there and then for their services.
"We cannot stay here though," I insisted, as my first prerogative as what you might call an employer. "I feel odd in this place."
"This is our home," Epsom pleaded.
"My home is your home now - old man!" I rejoined.
"A deal is a deal," Epsom was forced to admit. "Come," he instructed the others, "let us pack. We're moving.
Much trepidation was evident in the faces I saw looking to me, as if for guidance. I merely shrugged, as if to say "What can I do? A deal is a deal!"
In truth, when I saw these people packing to leave I assumed they were simply moving to a location closer to where I lived - though how they could have afforded living in the best part of town I could not imagine. I was, to say the least, a bit taken aback when they began following me; but, not wanting to be uncivil, I said nothing. However, when I reached home (I took a taxi) and found them still on my tail, all of them piled into an abominable-looking automobile, all of them getting out in front of my apartment building, I nearly passed out. "What in God's name are they doing here?" I wondered. "They can hardly expect to rent an apartment here!" I was in for quite a surprise.
They followed me up to the second floor, to the very door of my apartment. Now it was clear to me: they meant to move in with me of all things! I could hardly believe it, but what other explanation was there? So when I opened my door and found them trailing through behind me, I merely confirmed my worst fears.
"Could I get you anything before you leave?" I asked. Blank stares greeted me.
"Leave?" several turned to each other and whispered. "We just got here." Finally Epsom Salts took the lead.
"Why would we leave?" he asked. "We work for you now. What reason could there be to live anywhere but here?"
"Here?" I repeated. "How can you live here? Surely you see there's not room!"
"But we always move where our employer lives."
"What about back there?" I said. "I saw no sign of Silly Jilly."
"It's true he left, old man," Epsom explained, "but it was he who took us there, he who rented the place, he who furnished it. We have no home; we go where our employment takes us. I assumed you knew that."
"Indeed I didn't," I said.
"There is nowhere else for us to go," said Epsom, each of the others nodding in agreement. "We must remain here - with you. Else how will you write your novel?"
He had a point. However, they could not stay here: my landlord would never tolerate it, even if I could stand it. So, it appeared, the only thing to be done was to secure other lodgings and move.
"We'll need a bigger place," I resolved. "God knows where I'll find an apartment big enough to accommodate us all comfortably."
"Why not a house?" Epsom suggested.
"There are no houses in the city," I pointed out.
"What about the country?"
"Indeed," I said, "what about it?"
"You could purchase a house in the country. I hear the air there is rare, the water pure, the land fruitful."
My God! I thought: am I to be a writer or a farmer? Still, I saw no alternative. Reluctantly, I agreed.
"First thing tomorrow," I resolved, the hour being late, "I'll go see about it. In the meantime, you'll have to all bed down for the night, though God knows where."
"I'll take the bathroom," Gypsum Salts announced.
I laid down the law. "Enough is enough!" I insisted. "Whatever you were for this Silly Jilly," I firmly informed Gypsum, "you are no more. You are my character now, and, I assure you, I'll have no such nonsense as the passing of gas in my novel! The very idea!"
"Please," Gypsum persisted, "just one little farté?"
"Absolutely not!" I replied. "In fact: you go to the kitchen, and stay there until further notice." Gypsum obeyed my direction - indeed, had he not, I would have sent the whole lot of them packing. I am, after all, the author of my own work. Things must be done my way, according to my plan, and at my pace and pleasure, or not at all. Simple as that. I am the boss.
"As to the rest of you," I then announced, "save for one room - my bedroom - you may gather in any manner or in any room you see fit. I shall retire now; please keep the noise down, I have a busy day ahead of me. And disturb nothing, my possessions are most valuable and cherished. I bid you all good night."
I must confess I slept better than I thought I would, what with a bunch of strangers just outside my bedroom door, not withstanding that I kept my door locked all night. I arose at eight, managed to breakfast and what-not while they slept, and was gone by nine-thirty. The first item on my agenda: a trip to the bank, to secure a loan for my new home in the country. On the way, however, I made one brief detour. The Emporium, a quaint little shop I frequent, was having their annual clearance sale; I decided to pick up a few bargains, seeing how I was the first one there.
"30% up and more!" the big red signs placed throughout the store read.
"Ah, Mr Domby!" the proprietor greeted me. "It's good to see you. How are you? How's the family? What'll it be today? We have three-piece suits at 33% above regular price. Can I show you one?"
"Don't you mean 33% off the regular price?" I asked as I inspected the merchandise. He looked at me in a puzzled way.
"I don't follow your logic," he admitted. "If I lowered the price, how could I afford to advertise? Surely you see that. What's the purpose of having a sale if not to make money? I can't make money if I sell for less, can I?"
"How long have you been having these kinds of sales?" I inquired.
"Oh, at least ten seasons. Of late the impact has lessened somewhat, I admit, but this year I expect spectacular results. I have a new line of clothes: the Gerry Mander Collection. Direct from Istanbul. Pure untextured polyester. Shirts and ties of 90% virgin Dacron. Acrylic hat and scarf sets, in brown or gray. Plus underwear of the finest Cambodian cotton, imported from Taiwan. Socks with nylon reinforced heels and toes. All at sale prices. What'll it be, sir?"
I ended up with a plasteen handkerchief at 42 1/2% over regular cost. Not a true bargain perhaps, but I suppose one could do worse. By the time I left, the place was packed, everyone asking if this and that were on sale. If "No," the item was returned to the counter; if "yes," it was purchased. People go a little crazy at a sale, I guess.
My handkerchief completed my outfit perfectly. I was on my way to the United National Businessman's Bank and Exchange, located in the United Bank Building (the building was built before National Businessman's merged with United to form our city's second largest banking establishment). Ten o'clock: the front door was unlocked. The Bank was open for business. The guard looked me briefly over then nodded and said "Good morning." I nodded back, but did not speak; I never, as a rule, speak to doormen. I went directly to the teller.
"I'd like a loan application," I said. "Who do I see please?"
The teller had her hand out, all set to take my money; but, upon discovering no deposit, seemed suddenly ill at ease. "Over there," she indicated a young lady seated behind a metal desk with a wood grain plastic top.
"Excuse me," I addressed this young lady, "I'm here to secure a loan for a home in the country. May I have an application please."
"What collateral do you have?" she inquired. As she did not offer me a seat, I took it upon myself to sit down in the stuffed chair beside her desk.
"Collateral?" I echoed her question. "Why, I suppose my great dream will serve quite well," I replied, explaining that I was embarking upon a career as an author.
"Real property, I mean," she explained. I had a blank look on my face. "A house, for instance," she elaborated, "or an apartment."
"I rent," I said.
She shook her head. "That won't do. What about an automobile?"
"I may need a loan for that too, now that you mention it."
"You have no car either?" she asked. I said no, I didn't Again she shook her head.
"I'm afraid, sir," she finally said, "you have about as much chance of getting a loan as I do of becoming Queen of England. But, if you wish to fill out an application, you may."
"Please, I'd like to." She handed me the piece of paper. I filled it out and returned it. She looked it over; evidently something caught her eye.
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so? This is a business loan! You're with Rodon, I see."
"I am Rodon," I replied with great dignity.
"Ah!" she again exclaimed. "In that case," she said, "please come with me, sir. I'll take you directly to our President."
She led the way down a corridor off to the right, on past the vault, past the deposit boxes, to a mahogany door on which was engraved in gold the single word "President." She knocked then opened the door.
"Excuse me, sir," she announced, "this gentleman is Chairman of the Board of Rodon, Incorporated. He'd like to speak to you about a loan. Go right in," she said to me. I thanked her and made for a gigantic wooden desk behind which was seated a rather smallish man with glasses, a grayish suit and a balding head. He stood up, extended his hand, greeting me with a brisk "Welcome!" then motioned for me to be seated. I handed him my application, which he promptly set aside.
"A mere formality, Mr," he explained away the piece of paper and in the same breath sought my given name.
"Domby: Roland R Domby."
Mr Domby, of course, how unbusinesslike of me to ask. Please forgive me. I'm Horace Hokum-Poicus, President of United NBB and E. Now what can we do for you? How much do you need?"
"I'm thinking of purchasing a home in the country," I said.
"And a very good investment it is, too!" said Hokum-Poicus. "Buy now, that's what I always say! Don't wait till the market expands: why pay more tomorrow when you can pay less today? Now I recommend split-level. You'll find their re-sale better. What price range did you have in mind?"
"Oh, say around fifty or sixty," I surmised. It was purely a ball-park figure.
Hokum-Poikus shook his head. "I won't hear of you taking under a hundred grand!" he insisted. "Frankly, it wouldn't be worth your while or mine. The interest alone can just about wipe out your taxes - and look what you'll have to show for it! So let's make that a round one hundred. Now, that's unless you care to go for two."
I had to think that one over. Two hundred thousand's a lot of money, even for a home in the country. "Hmm," I mused. "It is tempting."
"It's our curse, I tell you Rodney!" Horace confessed. "We're the devil's own when it comes to money. Tempt - tempt - tempt: that all we do. It's always 'Do you need more? can we give you more?' Till, before you know it, you've got more money in your wallet than we do in our vault! It's always the same with us. We just can't seem to restrain ourselves. So, what'll it be? One - or two?"
The logic of it obscured every counter argument. "Better make that two," I said.
"I knew I could depend on you!" the banker exclaimed. "Big, growing concerns like Rodan: I'd have been disappointed - shocked even - had you settled for less!"
"Well, better safe than sorry," I admitted.
"Amen brother! That's just what I say - what I always say! Better safe than sorry!"
I must have garnered a skeptical look for, before I knew what was happening, Hokum-Poicus had called his head teller in for a consultation. "I want you to tell this man," he ordered, "he's a bit reluctant to accept anything at face value - and I don't blame him: he didn't get to be President of a top corporation by being gullible! So tell him what it is I always say. Go ahead," he prompted, "tell him."
The head teller, a woman perhaps fifty years of age, looked from her boss to me. She seemed a bit taken aback by the request.
"Go ahead," her boss again prompted, "what is it I always say?"
"A penny saved is a penny earned?" the head teller queried.
"No," countered the banker.
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?"
"No, I'm no dealer in tropical pets. Try again."
"Never count your chickens before they're hatched?"
"Madeline, I'd as soon be dead as live on a farm!"
"Me too," I agreed.
"A pound of flesh is worth its weight in gold?"
Hokum-Poicus just kept shaking his head as Madeline, the head teller, rattled off one after another cliché - each less appropriate than the last to the great work being done here at United NBB&E till finally she hit upon the correct formula.
"Better safe than sorry?" an exasperated Madeline asked.
"There you go! That's it!" said Horace. "What'd I tell you?" he said to me. Madeline left. Her clichés left with her, they had no more place in a bank than in economic theory itself, and I expressed as much to my friend Horace. "True," he agreed. "But give her time, she's only been with us thirty years. She's still got a lot to learn."
"I couldn't agree more," I said. A moment of silence ensued, of the sort one might call awkward had Horace and I not become such fast friends in so short a period of time. I took this opportunity to gaze around his office. Finding its decor - its rich brown tones - most satisfactory, I pronounced it beautiful: "Your office is beautiful, Horace." He thanked me.
"Well," he said, rising, "to the vault!" He led me, from his office, down the corridor to a huge steel door which, with a little prodding, he opened. "It's a grope lock," he explained, "the latest invention - better even than a voice lock. With this, you touch the sensitizer all over. It responds to your fingerprints. Opens right up. That is, if the right person touches it."
We went inside. To my surprise it was well lighted - florescently - and gave off a crisp metallic aroma: I had always assumed a bank vault would be damp, dark and musty. This one had polished aluminum walls, green tiled floor, and an Armstrong cork ceiling.
"Very impressive," I said. Horace pressed my hand warmly, his fingertips moving about my palm as if it too were a grope sensor. "What if we got locked in?" I asked. "How would we get out?"
"See that phone? A direct line to the FBI. My fingerprints are on file. All they do is cast a plasteen replica, get one of their agents to come out and, using essentially my very own fingerprints, open the door. The whole operation can be done in less than a week's time. So there's no danger. Now then," Horace said as he reached up to a shelf, "that was two hundred thousand - right?" I said yes, that was right. "Okay - here you are." He handed me the money.
"Tell you what I'm going to do," he said, reaching into a small drawer to his left, "I'm going to throw in another couple thousand - just a little something extra for a rainy day. The head of a multi-national conglomerate shouldn't have to scrounge around getting pocket money out of piggy banks, should he? So, there. Couple thousand for a rainy day. How'll that be?"
"Fine with me," I said. "And, ooh, don't you hate a rainy day!"
"Yuck: please don't mention it: maybe they'll go away! Maybe someone'll invent something to put under the clouds. A clear vinyl cloud cover maybe, so no one'll ever get wet again."
"Better than clear," I added, "make it black, so we can hide the whole damned business till it's over!"
"Amen, Ronnie, Amen!"
I left with a much firmer grasp of economics, not to mention banking. All in all, I was rather glad my attorney had incorporated me. Money in hand (receipt in hand, that is, the money of course having been safely deposited in a checking account), I made straightway for the downtown office of Leggitt, Barnhide and Schoop-Schoop, Realtors.
"Actually," the receptionist corrected me, "they're Real Estate Consultants."
"I don't want to consult," I apologized, "I want to buy."
Just then three full grown men burst from behind three big office doors, each door bearing the name of a "Super Consultant": from one shot Leggitt, from another Barnhide, from the third Schoop-Schoop. All three rushed to my side, the first two to reach me taking a hand each, the third (who later was introduced to me as A. August Schoop-Schoop) taking hold of my necktie and fondling it. All three cried in unison: "Don't worry, we also sell!"
"We double as real estate agents - in the finest old tradition," I was assured by all three. Their timing was excellent, their sense of harmony flawless. Barely did one begin a refrain than the others joined in, as if all three had over the years perfected a vaudeville routine. I was impressed with their competence; I saw first hand how they had come by their fabulous success.
"I'm looking for a house in the country," I said. They took this opportunity to introduce themselves.
"I am Timothy T. 'Tim-Tim' Leggitt."
"Romulus Barnhide here."
"A. August Schoop-Schoop."
"And you are?" they all three asked.
"Roland R. Domby."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Domby. Is that a split or a rancher? Or perhaps a Cape Cod? We have all types. Dormers, gables, cornices, porticoes, awnings, patios, balconies - you name it."
"Actually," I addressed all three in turn, in a sense measuring my words as I went so as not to slight anyone, "I want something plain, with as many rooms for the money as possible.
"Big family, eh?" Leggitt noted. I nodded yes.
"We've got just the thing for you," said Barnhide.
"101 Industrial Pike, just outside town," Schoop-Schoop elaborated.
Before I knew it we had all piled into their new BMW and were on our way. We had not gone far till we were beyond the city limits; the high-rises gave way to trees, the street signs to boxwood and yews; and the traffic lights disappeared altogether. We were in the country. A few more turns brought us to Industrial Pike, a narrow street, somewhat elaborately named, I thought. The recent rain we had stood collected in puddles beside the road, and a few of the magnificently kept lawns looked somewhat water-logged. I commented on the phenomenon.
"It's from recent drilling in the area," the realtors explained.
"Oh," I said, satisfied with their explanation.
Suddenly the BMW stopped in front of a big two story frame house with a huge yard in the front.
"More drilling?" I asked, noting the lawn's condition. "We've ordered it stopped," they said. "You'll never be troubled again with drainage."
We all went in; they showed me around, pointing out each feature of the house. "I like it," I said. "How much is it?"
"It's one hundred thousand," said Leggitt.
"I'll take it." I withdrew a blank check and filled it out. Since I had not had time to receive my pre-printed checks yet, I wrote across the top "Rodon, Inc." and signed my name at the bottom. Handing my check to the realtors I noticed their faces suddenly light up.
"Oh, we've made a terrible mistake," they said. "We had this place confused with 1010 Industrial Parkway - that house is one hundred thousand. This one is one hundred seventy-five thousand. Oh what a dreadful mistake. Please forgive us."
I was certainly glad Hokum-Poicus had made to take two hundred thousand. I tore up the check and made out a new one. The realtors smiled as they took it.
Moving was easier than I anticipated. Not only did I have a good stock of characters for my novel; as I soon discovered, I had a fine bunch of movers as well, which saved me hundreds of dollars. I rented a U-Haul; hired a driver; got all my furnishings loaded, managed to get all the characters in the small van, bid my landlord farewell, and was on my way. One trip did it. Forty-five minutes later we pulled up in front of my new home in the country. My characters unloaded my goods; I supervised them where to put everything.
"Of course, we're still a little short on beds," I pointed out. "What I thought I'd do, for now, is get sleeping bags for all of you. Then we can worry about beds at our leisure."
"Sleeping bags?" Epsom Salts inquired. "Is this to be a camping novel?"
"Please don't confuse where you live with where you work," I reminded him. "True, they're both in close proximity - we'll be working on these very premises - but they're quite distinct. Sort of like inhabiting two separate places simultaneously. I think we'd better go and get the sleeping bags."
Myself and Epsom and his brother Gypsum piled into the van and made for the big shopping center down the road; Epsom insisted he was a licensed chauffer. We parked alongside a Salvation Army truck, where people were dropping off unwanted items. A man emerged from that truck, evidently a visitor only. As the Salt brothers and I were disembarking our van, this man saw fit to approach and chide us for what he described as "our Newtonianism."
"Gentlemen," he lectured in a stern voice, "you are fine proponents of the mechanistic world view, what with your impossibly oversized vehicle, with its massive overuse of nonrenewable energy sources! Wouldn't a Toyota have done as well? Don't bother answering, I know what your answer would be! Undoubtedly you would propose an indefinite supply of fossil fuels. Ha! I say to that. Indefinite is a relative term, gentlemen, I would remind you. Whereas the second law of thermodynamics is absolutely absolute. The world is winding down, gentlemen, and we with it. Entropy, or the transfer of available energy from a usable to a non-usable state, is set to descend upon our very heads. Gentlemen, you have been sold a bill of goods by U-Haul! No one needs a van to come shopping. But if you're really concerned with the future, here's my card. I will be lecturing this evening and every evening at 8 P.M. at the Center for a Viable Entropy. Entropisticism, gentlemen: that's what it's all about, that will be the subject of my lecture. Five dollars admission - that's all, just five dollars. Good day, gentlemen, I must be off. I don't suppose you'd care to hand out brochures for me inside the mall?"
I declined, in the name of all three of us.
"I say old chap," Epsom said on our way in, "what with asking a full five-spot for his talk, is our friend not guilty of practicing what he preaches against?"
"Well," I replied, "ideals or no, a man's got to live in this world."
"Till it all entropies away!" Epsom noted, adding "At which point, old bean, we can stuff it in our U-Haul and be on our merry way!"
We bought the sleeping bags at Metricula's Sporting Occasions on the second level. She gave us bulk rate, and helped us carry them to our van. She was a big woman and, in truth, carried more than either the Salt brothers or myself. On the front window, beneath the wiper blade, was a bill advertising tonight's lecture. Metricula saw it and ripped it right up.
"My uncle could tell you a thing or two about this Entropisticism that'd make your hair stand on end!" she informed us. "He'll be speaking here next week, at the Center for Nature Management. He's a Mechanisticist. I suggest you come listen to him - that is, if you get back from your camping trip in time. Have a good day. And keep those gasses guzzling!"
We stopped along the way for hamburgers and coffee to go. The food was greatly appreciated by my characters, who promptly laid their sleeping bags out and bedded down for the night. It grew very quiet very quickly. With - thankfully - nothing else to do, I returned to my study to take up my novel where I had left off.
"Chapter 1" soon stared back at me, and I at it. I think what it was, I had so much to say that all my ideas raced forward at once, effectively clogging that part of the mind which translates the abstract into concrete form. My creative genius was not quite getting through to pen and paper. Perhaps, I decided, what I needed was a nice, quiet walk down a country lane to start the juices flowing again. I slipped out so as not to awaken my characters.
The sun had set, of course, a sapphire sky through which twinkles began to appear covered the tree lined street where I lived. The lawns opened into miniature fountains, each deep green blade of grass a spray of dew. At intervals, as if recessed into the trees, were street lights; you could scarcely distinguish pole from trunk; and each lamp, like an eagle, sat perched in its nest, except upside-down. A gentle evening wind diffused the pale bluish light, creating with each rustle of leaves another defraction. The insides of my neighbors' homes cast a glow onto the night. I walked along the peaceful route, absorbing the feel of things.
Suddenly there came fast upon me, from behind, the clippety-clap of horse's hooves, but with one deviation: instead of four, there sounded to be only two hooves. Nevertheless, I moved aside; even a two-legged horse I would just as soon avoid. Turning around, however, once I had stepped from the pavement onto somebody's front lawn, I saw coming at me, not a horse at all but a man. A jogger. He slowed up when he got to me. I noticed his shoes had cleats on the bottom.
"Why do you jog in those shoes?" I asked.
"The bigger question," he retorted, "is why you walk when you could be jogging? Don't you know jogging is beneficial?"
"Walking might be too," I suggested.
"Pooh!" he sneered. "Whoever heard of working up a good sweat walking?"
"I'm out contemplating," I explained. "For that, walking is perfect."
"Contemplating what?" he asked.
"The universe. The sky. The night. I am an artist. An author. I had a little trouble writing just now. Writer's block, I imagine. So I took to the street."
"And now you've thought of something to write?"
"Well," I hedged. "Not entirely."
"I thought not!" he sneered. "Indeed, I would have been shocked right out of my jock strap had you said otherwise! Believe me, Mr. Writer, you can walk and contemplate till the stars play dead and you'll be no closer to thinking of anything to write about than you are now!"
"Surely you must be exaggerating," I argued.
"Exaggerating, am I? Well let me tell you something, Mr. Almighty Pompous Author: if you want to write, you stop traipsing around in the dark and get your butt moving and start working up a good sweat! I'm simply repeating what all the great men of this planet have said time and again: Genius is 10% - you heard me right: 10% - Inspiration and 90% Perspiration! So while you're out here contemplating away your paltry 10%, you aren't getting anything done - not a damn thing! - because that vast untapped 90% is going to flab right there on your very bones! Writer, mister? Pooh! You're no more a writer than I am a ballet dancer! Only the difference between us is: I don't wish to be a ballet dancer. Which is precisely why I'm here, now, running, instead of down at the Spa working out!"
"The Spa?"
"Health Spa - my God, don't tell me you're a writer and you never heard of the Creatatorium?"
"Well, uhm, I think, uhm, that is..." I mumbled.
"Holy shit!" the jogger exclaimed. "Some kind of writer you'll make! Remind me to never read anything you've written: it won't have one bit of sinew. All fluff, like a bag of fiberfill. Jesus, what a waste." He seemed about to resume his jog.
"Uhm," I said hastily, "where, uhm, is this place? I mean, I know of it. But, well, I've actually been going to some other Spa. I think maybe I'll try it instead."
"You will not regret it!" he assured me. He gave me the address then took off running.
"Remember," he called back to me, "90% perspiration!"
"First thing tomorrow," I vowed. "I'm determined to become a great writer - and by God I will! Flab? You see flab, Mr Jogger? Well, not for long you won't! Creatatorium: here I come!"
I could hardly sleep for my excitement. Next morning, after informing my characters I had to go into town on urgent business, I summoned a taxi and was on my way. Twenty minutes later, I was standing before the Health Spa. A sign outside read "Creatatorium: Spa To The Creative." I went in.
"Good morning, sir, how may we best help you?" a tall, slender man of about forty greeted me.
"I wish to become a great author," I answered.
"We'll begin at once," he replied. "I'm Jerry, I'll be your creative consultant for development. Forgive me, but it appears you brought no gym clothes - am I correct?"
I had not once thought of what I would need to wear. "I'm afraid so," I admitted.
"No problem, I'll send out for them. You look to be a medium. Slim!" he called. A young man approached, very tall, red-headed, very skinny.
"Yes sir?" said Slim.
"I want you to go right over to Metricula's, get me a sweat suit and athletic shoes and you'd better get a couple knee pads and a good athletic supporter for our new client here. Medium size. What size shoe do you take?" Jerry asked me.
"About an 8," I said. Slim was on his way. Jerry explained that the clothes would be added to my membership fee.
"In the meantime," he said, "why not have a look around?"
The Spa was very Spartan in appearance; there were no frills. No large mirrors, no lounge, no whirlpool bath, no steam room or sauna, no exotic equipment. I expressed surprise that so much seemed lacking.
"You'll get these, I guess, as your business expands?" I assumed.
"Our business is superb, sir!" Jerry assured me. "We have all we can handle, especially in certain fields. You see, sir, it is the creative facility we seek to develop, not the muscles per se. You will find no barbells or the like here. Our aim, simply stated, is that you should work up a good sweat."
I noticed different people doing different exercises. "Everyone rotates?" I asked. "First one set of exercises, then another?"
"No indeed," Jerry corrected me. "We have designed very specific programs for very definite fields of endeavor. We have observed that the quality of sweat one works up depends upon the regimen one follows. Further, that each field requires a regime indigenous to itself alone to maximize one's creative potential. You could hardly expect a writer, as in your case, to benefit from a painter's regime. And so on. Our programs are designed with the field in mind. Each field presents its own paradigm."
I witnessed every conceivable exercise being done. I prompted my consultant each step of the way so as to establish exactly what I, as a writer, would be doing: I preferred that to simply waiting till my clothes arrived. At one point I was almost knocked down by a man doing summersaults - endless summersaults, across the entire room.
"Excellent!" cried Jerry. "Now there's a summersault worthy of a politician!"
"Politician?" I inquired.
"Of course," Jerry explained. "Of all persons the politician needs to keep a clear head. What better way than to roll and tumble constantly? The brain becomes used to constant twists and turns; indeed, it gets to where it can no longer function at full capacity except in a state of constant flux."
Just then something swung past me. I jumped, thinking it perhaps a giant spider. But it was a man, hanging upside down from the ceiling, his feet strapped inside what looked like shoes.
"I could never do that - either stand on my head or hang like that!" I insisted.
"They're not for you," Jerry replied. "The gravity boots are reserved exclusively for Captains of Industry. We maintain our business executives in that position just up to the point where they almost pass out, then we stand them right-side-up and send them on their way. The process, we find, enables them to make the tough decisions they are daily called upon to make. All feeling flows to the feet when upside-down, leaving pure reason in the brain."
Up ahead - and I had not noticed it until now - was a tiny cage; in it, a man. "My God!" I cried. "That's barbaric!"
"Please sir: reserve judgment. The man pays good money to be put inside our Think Tank. He's an inventor, a scientist as well. Having to cope with dire circumstances, he finds his inventive skills are honed to near perfection. He has already invented three new weapons systems, in just the short time he's been with us. He is working now on a Spoiled Bomb: it will only fire when it feels like it; the idea behind it, of course, to preclude hitting our own armaments."
"Ah," I marveled, "good things surely to come in small packages!"
Just then - speak of packages - mine from Metricula's arrived. I thanked Slim and went to get dressed. When I returned, Jerry showed me the Certificate they awarded upon completion of the prescribed regimen. I read it aloud.
"The aforementioned, having sweated a good sweat worthy of his above named field of endeavor, is hereby certified a Genius in said field. Signed and sealed this _______day of ___________ in the year _______."
The rest too was blank, requiring the signature of the appropriate consultant plus the great seal of the Spa to make it official. It goes without saying how truly impressive the document was. And more: it gave me an incentive to keep at it, no matter how trying the regimen.
"You know," I couldn't help noting, "I haven't seen any artists here yet. Just businessmen, scientists and politicians."
"Nonsense!" rejoined Jerry. "Who do you think all those people over there are?" He pointed to a group doing aerobics.
"Ah, of course: dancers!" I said.
"Thank God you don't run this place!" Jerry retorted. "They're not dancers - the dancers are over there, doing hatha yoga. The aerobics are for musicians. Gives them stamina, good lungs and limbs, increases the circulation for long periods of sitting or standing.
"Oh," I said, a bit meekly. "And what about those?" Over in one corner was a group doing contortions and, it appeared, groping at one another. I was somewhat embarrassed.
"Painters," Jerry explained. "They're learning tactile sensitivity."
"And what's for writers?" I asked.
"Calisthenics, push-ups, side-straddle hops - "
"Jumping Jacks?"
"If you prefer the term," Jerry said.
"How long will it take?" I asked.
Jerry consulted a huge chart tacked to the wall. "Let's see," he looked it over. Writer - writer - ah! here we are! Writer. Actually, one session should do it, according to this. Unless you're especially dull-witted. Writing in America is quite easy, really, now that all but form has been removed from books. One easy session and you become an author. How great you become depends entirely on how much effort you put into it."
Now that was the best news I'd heard in a long time.
I worked up a good sweat. Indeed, once my regimen was well underway, everyone in the Creatatorium stopped what he was doing and came to watch me, so profusely did I sweat. My Jumping Jacks were executed with particular vigor; my calisthenics were truly inspired; my pushups spoke of boundless ambition; my roley-poleys (an excercise devised by Jerry himself wherein I combined sit-ups with side-rolls) left no doubt of my talent.
"The man's another Melville!" I heard someone comment. Several agreed. But there were skeptics as well. One person took my deep knee bends severely to task, comparing them to the jerky staccato of a freshman composition; he did begrudgingly note, however, that my effort more than made up for my lack of skill.
"Stylistically," said one, "I would compare him to D. H. Lawrence at his best."
My face grew very hot and, undoubtedly, very red from my workout. Its tone was favorably compared to Balzac's earlier works.
"I particularly like the way his toes remain pointed straight ahead," commented yet another. "I'm reminded of Henry James somewhat."
"Beautiful! Beautiful!" they all congratulated me on my chin-ups. "Nobel prize material here!" they agreed.
And so it went until, finally, I had gone the entire regimen, at which point Jerry came forward to present my certificate. Everyone gathered around. Jerry shook my hand; and, in a beaming voice, pronounced me fully certified in the art of writing.
"Congratulations, Mr Domby!" he exclaimed, handing me the certificate. This was greeted by a round of applause. "Now then," said Jerry, "get thee gone and start writing the Great American Novel!"
I thanked him, turned and took a brief bow, thanked the others, and left, my certificate neatly under clear plastic, under my arm. Arriving home, I was burning with ambition to write, brimming over with ideas, raring to go. I went immediately to my desk.
"There is nothing new under the sun," I wrote. Stopping to re-read this the first passage of my first novel, I momentarily lost my train of thought. This didn't bother me, though, since I needed a break from my writing anyway. I sat back and relaxed, making a mental note to write, as my next project, a small treatise extolling the virtues of perspiration. "Perhaps," I thought, "it should be divided into two sections. The first should depict the actual tapping of this bounteous fountain; the second must then explain, in great detail, its application to one's creative aims." A bold project, to be sure, but one I was eminently qualified to undertake.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew it was getting dark in my room. From beyond, noises were filtering in - noises of people moving about, talking, laughing, some crying, one or two sighs, even a moan.
"How in God's name can I concentrate with all this noise?" I asked myself. The walls of my room were, as I discovered, very thin, and every sound tended to magnify as it seeped through. I could hear everything going on throughout the house. "This will never do," I thought. "I'll have to have order in my house or I cannot work." I made up my mind to lay down the law. I went down into the other part of the house; my room, with its own bath and a smaller adjoining room I used for my study, was set off by steps, thereby splitting the house into two distinct levels, and, although smaller, it was, actually, the better part of the house. I stood for a moment on the bottom step (there were six altogether).
"Well," I announced, "there's work to be done. Play time must come to an end. We - all of us - must now earn our keep." A great hush befell the house, so quiet that, outside, the gentle rain which had begun falling was audible, if faintly, against the window and upon the roof. Even the distant sound of traffic on the freeway, more than a mile beyond, could be heard.
"There's work to be done." My words seemed to echo throughout.
As I was soon to discover, my words - awesome as they were - bore repeating; for, although my characters quieted their commotion, in no time at all, my back barely turned, they were fast at it again. All manner of noise soon emanated from their parts of the house. Let me take a moment to describe the house, for it truly was a marvel of American know-how. For a mere $175,000, I had purchased a split-level home (reference already made to that fact) sitting on a full 1/2 acre of ground (double the size of a normal lot). In this house were ten rooms: my three, already alluded to, consisted of a master bedroom, a master bath and a study; a kitchen and dining room; a living room, with fireplace; one additional bathroom; and three additional bedrooms - plus a full basement and an attic crawlway. Out back was a covered patio, in front a portico. There was also a two car garage. The place was minorly landscaped: a boxwood stood on both sides of the front porch, an upright yew at the end of the lane, and a silver maple in the middle of the yard. Variously, the yard was slightly raised where trees had had to be cut down to facilitate construction. Altogether, I now owned a most advantageous home in the country - a home I generously agreed to share with the group of persons I had encountered and whose only debt to me, a very minor one, was to work as my characters, thereby earning their keep. It seemed as if I had expected too much of them.
Well, for the man embarked upon a glorious career, "too much" often translates "too little." I began right away to see my error. In expecting merely cooperation, I sold both myself and my great ambition short. I must expect, if I were to succeed, not less but more of my characters - really, my employees, though I refrained from using the term in their presence. Art, after all, is fully as much a business venture as it is anything else; and, though I felt it would disconcert my characters to be apprised of their true positions in my scheme (they seemed overly sensitive somehow), still I could not in good conscience relieve myself of the responsibility of regarding them as workers - employees - first and foremost, pure and simple - and since behavior follows perception, I must necessarily treat them as such.
For several days I said nothing, though the incessant background hum of their activities so irritated me as to all but obscure my plot. I wrote very poorly in those early days; thank goodness I was only working on my outline, which I decided ought to precede the work after all (having toyed with the idea of an outline previously, but - I think too hastily - having decided to forego it). Finally I could take no more. Here I was working virtually day and night (except for my necessary visits to town: for supplies; to consult with my banker, my attorney, my agent, my publisher and my printer, etc.), and there they were in effect partying around the clock! This became an intolerable situation: the boss does not work while his employees loaf! It was time to lay down the law. Once again, I called them all together. Once again, I stood on the bottom step of my split level.
"I have drawn up a list of 19 do's and don'ts - these will be the Rules of the House. I expect everyone to abide by them. I will now read them for your benefit - and, please believe me, they are for your benefit." I proceeded to read them off, one by one. I will list here for my readers just the major rules, since a number of them (such as "Flush the toilet after each use") cannot be truly said to be of much philosophical or artistic moment.
"One," I read: "There is to be no talking, singing or playing music while work is being done. Two: All absences must be requested in advance." The second rule was primarily anticipatory since, as yet, to my knowledge, no one had left the premises (indeed, they showed a profound reluctance to do so); nonetheless, I could not allow a situation to develop wherein a crucial character might turn up missing, besides which the precedent would be ominous.
"Three: No one is to enter my portion of the house - i.e., the second level - without my expressed permission." Again, a purely anticipatory rule, since no one had heretofore attempted any such entry. Throughout the 19 Rules I strove to stress that, as this was a cooperative business venture, it was primarily for their benefit that these rules be strenuously and impartially enforced.
"Are there any questions?" I asked when finished reading.
"Just one, old man," asked Epsom Salts. "Will you post your hours of work, so we'll know when to be quiet?"
I thought for a moment. The question was well posed. "As an artist," I explained, "I am apt to be working at even the oddest hours, so we'll have to keep it flexible. But in general, the schedule will be a normal 9 to 5 shift, daily. This will help us maintain a routine, which in turn will of course maximize our productivity. Any further questions?" There were none, so I dismissed my workers and returned to my study, aware how tremendously valuable rules were, and what an indispensable tool they were for maintaining order - no less than the greatest of all social principles they are, in truth. In the back of my mind, in fact, was the resolve to someday write a small treatise on the absolute need for discipline, a treatise long overdue and which, as an artist, I am especially qualified to write.
I returned to my outline protected by 19 iron clad Rules, supposing my troubles at an end.
I had affixed a copy of the rules to the inside front door. Upon reconsideration, I made copies of the copy and tacked one on both the front and back of each door, plus one on the refrigerator (which would stay put only by using a magnetic device bearing the likeness of a skunk), one on the side of the television, and one beside the toilet. In no time at all Gypsum Salts had all 19 Rules memorized, his facility leading me to suspect he was still partly in character. I had a long talk with he and his brother regarding that point, during which I made it quite clear I would tolerate no lingering aroma, as it were, of Silly Jilly's.
"He is no longer your employer," I reminded the Salt brothers. "Gypsum: I will not have you loitering in the bath. And as for you, Epsom, I deplore your phony British accent and wish you to cease using it forthwith." One must be firm with underlings.
"The accent, old bean," Epsom said, "is my own. I cannot say if I was born with it, but I acquired it so early on it's become second nature to me. I must needs cease speaking altogether to rid myself of it. The only character I can be is this phony Britisher, as you choose to call him. I'm sorry, but, I thought I made clear, I am not an actor - nor are any of us actors: we are characters, whose identities may be used by any author, for a slight fee. But the author must take what he finds, for it is not within our power to change our natures. Simply because our identities can be lifted from our psyches to be put upon paper does not mean we are any less who we are or that we can alter our identities to suit any given author: we cannot. My brother suffers from a kind of colitis. Silly Jilly discerned this and built his work around that fact. I suffer from an effected manner. If you wish to use it, fine; if not, I will help out in some other fashion. I hope, though, I make myself at last clear."
"Let me think about it," was all I said for, in truth, I was somewhat appalled by his rather brusque manner and while I did not wish to chastise him, neither did I wish to in any way sanction such an insolent attitude. Besides, I was preparing to put my characters to work in real earnest, and did not wish to be seen as too hard a taskmaster. I reasoned, also, that as Epsom was the most outspoken of the lot - indeed, he almost seemed their spokesman - he could prove a valuable ally for keeping them in line. Therefore my willingness to overlook in him what I simply would not tolerate in another.
You see, dear reader, my outline was nearing completion. Some of it, entirely by chance, coincided with Job's superstructure, which I had perused (after all, I paid good money for it, I may as well look it over). Any day now I would be starting my novel. Actually, though, as my readers well know, I had already started and, in truth, was well on my way; but, being of scrupulous integrity, I cannot and will not declare myself to have begun my great work prior to completing my outline. It just isn't done; in literature, as in everything, there is a protocol. My outline ran to almost seven pages, single spaced too; and, as expected, provided me the proper framework about which to mold my story. I knew more or less what must go where, and this included characterization as well as plotting. Mid-week, I finished my outline. Immediately, I descended to my workers' level, outline in hand.
"Here it is," I announced. A round of applause greeted this announcement.
"So it's a short story, old chap!" Epsom Salts quipped.
"Are we all in it?" asked Gypsum Salts.
"Gentlemen, please," I cautioned, "do not let your enthusiasm get the better of your judgment. For this is but the outline. The work itself - which is to be a novel, not a mere short story, I quite assure you - is just now commencing. Now, my friends and fellow workers, now is the time for all good characters to come to the aid of their author!"
"I say, old man, might you type that out for us?" asked Epsom. A very good request, but one I was at present unable to honor owing to my lack of both typing skills and a good secretary, though I did maintain an excellent typewriter somewhere in my closet.
"Once I get my secretary," I promised, "I'll have her type that up for you - a copy for each if you like."
"Good show - jolly good show!"
"I wish you wouldn't say 'jolly,'" I requested. "It brings to mind your former employer, and I do not with the introduction of a hack into my home any more than I would wish his style or syntax in my novel."
"Very good, old man. Very good," Epsom agreed.
"Now then," I proceeded, "as my outline is finished, and as I am therefore ready to begin the novel itself, I wish to acquaint myself with each of you. Epsom, and you too Gypsum: I feel as though I already know you well enough to dispense with formalities; so, if you've no objection, I'll skip you two and go right to the others."
"No objection at all, old chap."
"Good. I want each of you, in turn, to step forward, introduce yourself, and give me a brief biographical sketch - beginning with you," I said, pointing to a young lady standing beside Gypsum Salts. The lady stepped forward. She had mid-length blondish hair and big green eyes. A pretty young woman, in her own way, if a bit tawdry looking.
"I am Styreen," she said.
"And your last name?" I asked.
"That is my last name, until I'm re-named."
"But, I mean, is it, for example Styreen as in, say, Styreen Smith?"
She reflected on that. "Yes," she finally said, "it is. That's a very nice name for me: Styreen Smith. Am I to have a middle initial?"
I thought a moment. "No," I said. "Now tell us a little about you," I prompted.
"My name is Styreen Smith - no middle initial. I hail from a taxi out of Sheboygan, Wisconsin, where I grew up. I was held without bail for shoplifting when I was thirteen, then released in the custody of my grandmother who, by then, had taken her vows. I stayed at the convent till I ran away with the statue of Jesus, which I had to pawn, though, once I got here. Very early in life I discovered how pliable my identity was; and that, with a little coaxing, it could be lifted from me. One thing led to another till here I am, a character in a novel."
"Not yet a true character," I corrected her. "Still only an understudy, so to speak." She seemed disconcerted by this and stepped back to let the next come forth.
An ancient looking man, with a truly unkempt beard and rather longish white hair introduced himself as "Armisted G. P. Z. Newsworthy, raconteur, philosopher, charlatan, pickpocket. I tend toward the sleazier works. These I give a certain air of degeneracy."
"In that event, sir," I replied, "your services will not be needed here. However, as I've been given to understand this arrangement to be something of a package deal, I shall keep you on, though in some capacity other than as a character. Perhaps you can help tidy up after the others."
"Tidiness is not one of my virtues," he said.
"Nevertheless," I rejoined, "I will not have slackers on my payroll. He who does not toil does not stay. Period."
"Perhaps I could tend the grounds," He yielded to my firm hand. He gave out a very deep sigh and stepped to the rear. Epsom Salts then asked for a word with me in private.
"I say, old bean, this Newsworthy chap isn't your ordinary character. He far outshines all the rest of us combined. You've no doubt heard of Mamolia Pleeze?"
"I dare say I could hardly warrant myself an author and not have! Her 'Cherries Jubilee' is a modern classic!"
"Well, old Newsworthy became her main character."
"Arthur Pennington? The Arthur Pennington, one of the most famous characters in American literature? That old man the model?" I asked, in disbelief. Epsom nodded that this was so.
"Not only that," he said, "but he served as the 'model,' as you still insist calling it, for no less a personage than Peanutbrittle Smith in Jepperson Halliway's immortal 'Railroad Blues in Silver-Bell Gray."
I was aghast. Here under my very roof - tending my very grounds! - was a virtual living legend! Too bad, I could not help thinking; too bad he didn't insist on using his own name in those novels, or that he didn't write either of them himself. He would have been a millionaire many times over had he had the vision to market his own product rather than simply letting others reap the reward. But, that's life. Doubtless it took a special breed to recognize his potential and put it to good use - and, clearly, he just wasn't one of that breed.
"Penelope Jonesport," the next character gave as her name, followed by a young man with a somewhat belligerent demeanor calling himself "Poppyseed"; a middle aged couple billing themselves as "The Wasps of Winocher"; a very heavy set woman of indeterminate age name Junelle Rashit; and various others whose names I took little notice of. I had them all write out their names and give a brief biography, which I incorporated into a master file I soon set up. I called it, simply, my Personnel Folder, a nomenclature most apropos, I thought.
The introductions over, I dismissed my workers and returned to my office. However, they remained loitering about for some time - as it turned out, bickering among themselves; till I finally had to descend once more into their midst to reaffirm, as it were, my authority, thus restoring order.
"What is this commotion about?" I asked, a bit angrily.
At first no one said anything. I stood, this time on the top step, looking out over what I can only describe as a small sea of diversity, so many forms, shapes and expressions did their faces assume. I felt as I watched a certain sense of power, the sort which all authors rightly feel; for it is they, the authors, who, taking raw material, fashions masterpieces - rather like any entrepreneur feels, knowing it is his effort, his investment, his time and his genius which ultimately produces that which we call enterprise. A most satisfying feeling.
After a moment, Epsom Salts spoke up. "There appears, old man, to be something of a misunderstanding afoot here," he explained. "Now that you've begun work, you'll of course need to be assigning us our respective places in your novel - that is to say, our places within the hierarchy of your overall schemata, as it were. We were debating, actually, who will be assigned starring roles, to state it simply. Billing, old man: that's the Golden Apple you've hurled amongst us."
"I certainly did no such thing!" I protested.
"I'm afraid, old bean, you've no choice here. You cannot construct a plot which accommodates all of us equally; therefore, some must necessarily become more important than others. Now, as it turns out, my brother here - of all people! - supposes himself to be your choice for main character. I fear his past work - with Silly Jilly - has gone rather to his head!"
"He did ask for me specifically by name!" Gypsum Salts insisted.
"Specifically, in this case, means by name, dear brother!" Epsom exclaimed.
"Whatever it means, I'm clearly to be the hero of his piece!" Gypsum announced. At that point Stryren spoke up.
"Well, I could tell by the way he looked me over he intends his main character to be a woman - and I'm that woman! His heroine!" she declared. This prompted a full-blown round-Robin, everyone pronouncing him or herself my prime candidate for star billing. A full fifteen minutes this melee (for I know not what else to call it) ensued, one character only keeping out of it. Newsworthy, whom I had already made it clear I could not use, legend or no. Finally I could take no more.
"Shut up - all of you!" I ordered. Immediately a hush befell this wayward band. "Shame on you!" I chastised them collectively. "The truth is, I'm to be my own main character!" I said this merely as a diversionary tactic; but no sooner had I said it than the possibilities flooded in upon my brain. The idea - initially a ruse - with each passing second assumed greater merit until, by the time it finally sunk in, I had grown convinced it was not only the ideal solution to the present dilemma but actually the very best course to take even without its pragmatic recommendations. Yes, I came to realize, yes indeed, that's just what I'll do: I'll be my own main character. Why share the billing - or risk, at some point, being accused of exploitation - when by becoming the star of my own show I thwart all possible objections, not to mention all dissension? The perfect plan. And who better to act out the great events I planned to depict than I, myself? The perfect solution.
It was some time before anyone spoke up. "Your own main character?" Gypsum Salts asked, a bit incredulously.
"You heard right," I replied. "My own main character."
"But..."
"But..."
So many objections were started, but I cut each off with a wave of my hand. When I returned to my study, it was as quiet as a church downstairs.
I was awakened by a small rap on my door. I had evidently dozed off at my desk, one minute fast at work on my masterpiece, the next moment fast asleep (no doubt future critics will see in this occurrence - and rightly so - an instance of how near to the dream state the creative state is). Normally no one disturbed me, so naturally I was quite curious. I went to the door.
"Mr Domby," a soft voice said, "I was just wondering if perhaps you might be needing a secretary to transcribe your great work to manuscript form?" It was Styreen Smith. "I would be honored to do it for you," she added.
I thanked her but said no, I did not need a secretary. "Oh," she said and started to leave but turned back to me. "If there's," here she paused and lowered her voice, which seemed almost to have assumed a seductive tone, "anything else I could do for you, I'd be very, very pleased to do it. Any service I could provide. Any at all."
Again I thanked her but again said no, I could think of nothing at the moment. With this, she descended the stairs to her own place; I returned to work, a bit curious, but flattered nonetheless by her kind offer. I gave it no further thought.
I had written no more than three sentences when there came another knock on my door, this one a bit louder. "Surely it can't be her again," I said to myself on my way to the door. Opening it, I found, not at all Miss Smith, but someone else, one of the other characters, one whose name I'm afraid had been no sooner given me than I promptly forgot it altogether. Before me stood this nondescript individual of medium height and weight with short blonde hair, a small mustache and hazel eyes.
"Excuse me, sir," he apologized for disturbing me, "but I was wondering if there was any way I might be of help? I'm a pretty good mechanic -"
"I have no car," I reminded him.
"I could rent one for you, if you like, or lease it - I'd be happy to do it!"
"Thanks, but -"
"I'm also a pretty good carpenter," he hastily added. "I could make you a credenza of knotty pine."
"Well, I hardly think knotty pine is appropriate for an author's furniture," I observed.
"But knotty fingers are good!" the man insisted. "They're philosopher's fingers. See, I have a book on palmistry. I could read your palm if you like."
"Oh, I don't much believe in that sort of thing - I'm more a pragmatist, I believe fate lies, not on your hands, but in them. These calluses writing puts on my fingers, I assure you, say more than all the knots, lines and curlicues put together."
"If you like curlicues, I can cook too! I slice my French fries real real thin! Want me to fix you some?"
"No, I'm not hungry. In fact, I really must be going to the bathroom."
"I'm a plumber too!"
"Good day," I said, and shut the door. I do not wish anyone without a license working on something as important as my plumbing. I did, in fact, make a trip to my bathroom; the whole while I was in there, though, someone was at the door to my suite knocking. I was quite peeved by the time I opened the door.
"What is it now?" I demanded.
Someone else was there; I could not recall his name either. He wore what must be reckoned the most obsequious smile ever garnered by human, though I have seen almost as bad on seals and once on a small furry creature at the zoo.
"I just wanted to shake the hand of the greatest writer who ever lived." With this he grabbed my hand - taking the left instead of the right one in his sweaty (I'm tempted to say oily) palm - and, pressing it, whispered, "God bless you and this good earth for giving you sustenance."
"My dear sir," I corrected him, "I purchase my victuals at the market, from a farmer who must spread tons of chemicals to coax so much as a single scrap of lowly potato from this 'good earth' you mentioned. So if you're intent upon thanking anything for sustaining my genius, I suggest it be Science rather than the 'good earth,' which is nothing but a mean-tempered old miser delighting in spewing rain on one's head and casting shadows across one's view and erecting every sort of barrier in one's pathway. Good day, sir." I slammed the door in his face. As God is my witness, I no sooner got back to my desk than another tap was fast upon my door.
"What in hell is going on around here?" I wondered aloud. This time an all too familiar face greeted me.
"Say, old bean, how about a brandy and a smoke?" It was Epsom Salts, who forthwith produced a bottle of vintage wine and a box of fine cigars. What could I do but invite him in?
"Have a seat," I said. I took out two glasses and two ashtrays; Epsom poured us a drink and lit our cigars.
"I daresay old man," he proceeded to relate, "you'll be needing a good antagonist to your protagonist, what? So, if you will, I'd much appreciate your keeping me in mind."
"Well, yes," I agreed, "sooner or later, my - my - uhm - protagon, as you say, could use a good anti-gon. I'm not too good at chemistry myself, so, of course, I'll keep you in mind. Yes, of course."
"Good show, old chap - jolly good show!" he declared. "Now, if you want, in the meantime, I'll do my best to keep these infernal sycophants out of your hair - shall I?"
"Please do," I said. "I'll never get my work finished otherwise. In fact, if you'll excuse me, I'd better be getting back to work now."
My brandy finished, my cigar smoked, I felt it was time my visitor departed. He deftly took my hint.
"I think we understand each other, old bean - what?" he said on his way out.
My work resumed, all disruptions, I imagined, at an end. It seemed to me I now had a most valuable ally in Epsom Salts, who despite his airs, was a pretty tough-minded individual and, as such, could be expected to keep the others in line until my book was completed, at which time most likely I could dispense with the entire crew. Meanwhile, something analogous to a managing supervisor was exactly what I needed. However - and I don't fault Epsom for this, he was still too new at his position - there ensued not more than half an hour of his departure, another round of knocking, followed by another round of irritating visits. I summoned Epsom and made it clear I was counting on him to keep things under control. He promised to do his best, but intimated his fellow characters to be lacking in self-discipline and therefore subject to the most irrational kinds of behavior.
"It has to do with enforcement, old man," he pointed out. "I can threaten, I can intimidate all I want; what it wants though is a mechanism for effecting the proper control. Any suggestions?"
Well, I had none just then. But later, when things got absolutely out of hand, when the disruptions had, as it were, erupted into a full scale melee, and when, especially, opening my door, I witnessed an actual fistfight between two of my characters, I immediately came up with a plan for establishing and maintaining order. A most valuable vase, one I had specially purchased from a small museum, was knocked off the mantle piece and broke to bits.
"That does it!" I said from the landing. "I'm calling the police!"
"Come at once!" I demanded. "All hell is broke loose in my living room!" Giving the address, I hung up. Within fifteen minutes a small squad of policemen had arrived and forced their way in - and none too soon for, in addition to the name calling which had commenced (I even heard my name demeaned!), the initial fistfight had widened to include six more persons. My home was fast becoming a shambles.
"Alright!" the police lieutenant exclaimed. "Break it up!" I half feared, at this point, they would take him literally; thankfully, they did not. With this single injunction, plus a little pushing and shoving, and a lift or two of Billy clubs above their heads, the police were able to quell the disturbance. Once they were all rounded up, the lieutenant re-appeared (I have no idea where he had gotten to).
"Alright," he announced, "you're all under arrest! Men:" he instructed his fellow policemen, "handcuff them, every last one, and take them away!" After this he ascended to assure me I was safe now, everything was under control. "We'll book them on disorderly conduct," he explained. "If you want them back, they'll have to be released in your custody. Give them a day or two to cool off, then come down to the station. And have a nice day!"
I had forgotten what quiet was. These were the most peaceful two days of my life. Indeed, had it not been for the absolute necessity of getting my work completed, I would not have gotten them out of jail. As it was though, I still needed them, so I made my way to the county jail, where my characters were released into my custody. A sorry lot they seemed, too.
"Ah, excellent!" the lieutenant commended my promptness. "Your timing could not have been better, Mr Domby! We need the space this very evening. We had a small riot down the road, a group protesting the new Liberty Freeway extension; tried to block construction; had to arrest them. Now we can book them for disturbing the peace. Unfortunately, I'll only be able to keep them till the weekend: we have a bank robber and a mugger coming in Saturday morning, I'll have to put them right where the protestor'll be. Ah, I tell you Domby, a policeman's got to be a psychologist, a diplomat, a politician, a little bit of tyrant and, most of all, a juggler!"
"Come to think of it, that pretty well describes an author too!" I quipped. We shook hands and parted. I made my characters walk the two and a quarter miles home while I rode in a taxi. Maybe that, added to their incarceration, would teach them some manners.
I no sooner arrived home than I was startled out of my wits by a visitor loitering about my front porch. I had neither seen nor heard him until I was unlocking my door; then, all at once, he popped up behind me and introduced himself. I nearly fainted from the sudden fright.
"How do you do? Gregory Tchoo here. And is it the great author, Ronald Domby, I have the pleasure of meeting?" This was how he introduced himself. Had it not been for his knowing - or almost knowing - me by name and reputation both, I would have started running, certain beyond a doubt that anyone who would sneak up on a homeowner like that was up to no good.
Once I got myself together, I noticed his outstretched hand. I took it and confirmed his supposition. "Indeed I am he," I acknowledged, pointing out that this "he" was named Roland, not Ronald. "I'm afraid you rather took me by surprise, Mr Shoe - is it?"
"T-Shoe," he corrected me, adding that taking people by surprise was second nature with him. "May I come in?" he asked. "I have urgent business. Profitable business for us both, I might add."
I assumed he had some dealings with literature so, of course, I was eager to learn the purpose of his visit. I invited him in, offered him a brandy and cigar, which he eagerly took. "And what, may I ask, do you do for a living?" I asked.
"I make hay," he replied, then broke into a laugh. "While the sun shines," he added.
"I see. And where is your farm? Nearby?" I asked.
Again he laughed. "It's at the county seat," he replied. "Where I make my hay - or to use your idiom: where I farm - is the county council. My crop, unlike the literal farmer's, does not get green as it grows; it starts out as green, but the green soon fades. Till tax time, that is! I'm a lawmaker. A councilman. I help write the laws we all live by in this county. Zonings and cronies: that's what makes it all work. I speak candidly as I perceive in you a no-nonsense individual."
"You perceive correctly," I confirmed his impression of me.
"Excellent! Let me begin by explaining how I happened by in the first place. You see, I'm good friends with our police lieutenant - he's my campaign manager. He apprised me of your plight: this pack of ruffians you've rented space to. Now as a man of law, I can arrange to have their lease voided; they can be out of here in half an hour, no questions asked."
I thanked him. "But you see," I explained, "they work for me. I'm loath to evict them just yet."
"Say no more. We in the county council do everything in our power to make it profitable for businessmen like yourself to avail themselves of our resources - including labor. What I especially want to do is offer my services - my expertise - as a lawmaker. I'm told you find it necessary to lay down the law. This is good - always a good thing. You can't have too many laws, I always say. But you must be careful they're written vaguely enough to escape successful challenge, yet shrewdly enough to give you the flexibility you need. That's where I come in. My record speaks for itself. I hereby offer to write your laws for you. Could you tell me more or less what the gist of them is?"
I presented him a copy of my 19 Rules of the House. "This is more or less the framework I had in mind," I explained.
"Should pose no problem," Tchoo said. "Tell you what: before I begin, I'd like you to see me in action. Come with me to the very next council session - as my personal guest! You'll see what politics is all about, Domby, mark my word. By the way, where are your workers?"
"They're on their way," I said. "I made them walk; they should be getting here any minute."
Just then the front door burst open and in they came. Gregory Tchoo immediately went up to them and introduced himself.
"I'm up for re-election," he said, "and I'm 1000% for the little man! I promise to do all I can to give you, and those like you, a job, a decent wage, good working conditions, benefits, a retirement plan, lower taxes, and too many other great things to think of just now! I'd certainly appreciate your vote!" He went among them, shook hands, patted them everyone on the back, and, after a great big "Good bye all! And I hope to see you at the Independence Day Parade July 4th!" he left. A most remarkable man.
I had not given much thought to anything other than my work. Paragraph upon paragraph flew by at an almost alarming rate - alarming because, being above all else a meticulous craftsman, I feared the loss of control over my work were such a speed to continue. In some cases my sentences ran to the very end of my page, well beyond the careful margin I was trying to maintain; and I discovered, in re-reading certain passages, words without a space between them, so that I found myself having to sometimes guess at what I had written. My style, thankfully, seemed immune from haste; it flowed as gracefully as ever. But some of my descriptions became somewhat flighty, as, for example, when I spoke of a rainy night as simply "a rainy night," without so much as a solitary metaphor to give it flesh. Worse still were my characterizations. I almost lapsed into the regrettable tendency of ascribing the most banal motives to my characters' actions; fortunately I caught myself just in time. I was right in the middle of depicting one character as "a fascinating man" when, grabbing hold of my writing hand with my free hand, I forcibly ended the passage, thus saving the character's reputation, and mine as well. In a word, it was high time for a break from the routine.
I was therefore most delighted when my friend Gregory Tchoo called for me. His timing was perfect.
"You've a visitor, sire," one of my characters announced, a bit formally.
"Who is it?" I asked, fearing it might be someone like Job coming to reclaim his superstructure, from which, for no particular reason and out of no special need, I had borrowed rather freely.
"I suspect, my liege, it is the gentleman who called last fortnight."
In truth, I had no more idea after that explanation than before, except that, as Job had never been here (and hopefully never would), it could not have been him. What a joy it was, descending to greet my guest, to behold, standing before me, none other than Mr Tchoo, member of county council.
"Ah! What a pleasure to see you again!" I greeted him.
"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you!" Tchoo replied graciously.
"May I get you a brandy?" I asked, but he refused.
"Never while I'm on duty!" he explained. "The council's in late session this evening. Luckily there was a recess - and of all the luck, it coincided with a break in the rain."
"Has it let up?" I asked, not having so much as glanced outside all evening.
"It has, yes. So I decided to come get you. Mr Domby: there will be no better time to observe the workings of your government than the present. Several crucial issues must be resolved tonight. So won't you please accompany me? I'll provide you a bird's eye view of everything; you'll know politics forward and back, upside and down, topside and bottom: all around! What do you say?"
I didn't even think about it. "I'd love to," I replied at once.
"Excellent!" cried Tchoo.
"Let me just get my coat and I'll be off."
While I was getting ready, several of my characters approached my guest. "Hello," I heard them address him familiarly.
"Have we met?" he asked vaguely. No one replied to his question; perhaps they felt awkward. Finally, as I was putting on my cologne, I heard him invite them one and all to the July 4th Parade, and to come vote for him next November.
"I'm going to give you clean air," he said, "clean water, new parks, playgrounds, and heaven only knows what all else! So remember: A vote for Tchoo is a vote for you! I saw him point at my characters as he gave this promise.
Outside, I told him he seemed to have quite captured my workers. This pleased him. "Just so they can read a ballot and press a lever!" he quipped. "By the way Domby," he said in the car, "as the head of a large corporation, you can't do better than our fair county. I'd like very much to see this the international headquarters of Rodon, Inc - I just today found out: had lunch with Hokum-Poicus, he filled me in on the details of your corporate strategy, intimated you could be persuaded under the right circumstances to locate here permanently. I think, Domby, I can make you a very attractive offer. With a little luck, I can get you just the right tax break, so that you shouldn't have to pay any. Now we've got a big tract of acreage just outside town; zoned residential right now: we were going to use it for a park; but I think I can get it re-zoned commercial. I tell you Domby: Rodon Industrial Park wouldn't look bad sitting there! As far as facilities, we'll have them at your doorstep. And don't worry about outrageous pollution standards: in this county you set your own standards, you're a responsible member of the community, there's no way you're going to abuse our resources. If you need cheap labor, that's no problem either: we simply cut back on social services, schools, and so forth; don't you worry, we can arrange it so plenty of unemployed persons turn up on your doorstep, hat in hand. What do you say, Domby? Partners?"
"I'll think it over carefully," I replied.
"That's all anyone can ask," Tchoo agreed.
When we arrived at the county council, and Tchoo returned to his session, I was led to the visitor's gallery, a small sunken area poised in front of the council chamber rather like the orchestra pit at a music hall. It was damp and smelled musty. I had to crane my neck to get a good look. Having brought my notebook and pen, I decided to take notes, thereby recording the great procedure for posterity (possibly even as part of my next work). However, the bailiff, discovering me fast at work, took my pen and notebook from me, explaining that they must be appropriated lest I present a distortion of the political process.
"Reporters tend to make us sound bad," he said. "They take everything the wrong way."
I explained that I was not a reporter but a great writer intent upon immortalizing these chambers.
"Sorry," he said, "rules is rules. No notes when the council is in session."
"Well, Domby, got an eyeful? An earful? A bellyful? Huh?" my great friend Gregory Tchoo came up after the session recessed for the night to ask.
"Quite a process," I admitted, for, indeed, how could the great political process fail to impress one? "I particularly liked your firm stance vis-a-vis the New Technology."
"It's where it's at, my friend," Tchoo replied with great enthusiasm. "Computerization: the key to the future. Computers - and I mean personal computers as well as the big bruisers! that's what progress is all about. All man's history has led us straight to the computer. And I want to get us in on it, here in this county. I'm talking relocation, Domby. Big concerns - like your Rodon: I want them here, right here. We've got the resources, we've got the labor, got the tax breaks written into our County Code - well, now we do!"
I took this opportunity to congratulate Tchoo on his brilliant political maneuvering, getting each of the things he mentioned adopted by the council in one sitting.
"What I want," Tchoo took me aside to explain, "is a school - not just any school: a special school. Pascal, Fortran, Cobol: I want 'em taught here, right here. I don't want our brightest students having to go elsewhere for training. We'll focus primarily on Pascal, of course."
"He had some good things to say," I agreed. It so happens I had encountered some of Pascal's writings at the library; they looked interesting; I remember the whole first page was in italics.
"I want programmers, Domby, yours or anybody's! I'd kill for a good team of programmers! There's so much here in the county that needs to be computerized. Hell, not just here - everywhere! I'm talking the whole world over! I'd like to see - and, Domby, I won't rest till I do see - a computer in every office on earth! A video game in every home! I want every man, woman and child on this planet to learn how to play. A world full of programmers - just think of it, Domby: no war, no turmoil, no poverty, no disease. Just programming, and four billion terminals, enough to reach from here to Mars and back. And it's going to happen, Domby; and I'm going to be the one to do it. Just the first minute I can get myself elected President, the great work will commence. I can hardly wait, Domby - what about you?"
"I like that one where the little blue and red things chase after the yellow one and try to eat it. That's my favorite," I said.
"Good man, Domby," Tchoo said. "If only everyone had his head on as straight as you do!"
It was late when I arrived home, and it was still drizzling. I thanked my friend for the ride and hurried inside. Cutting across the lawn, I splashed water onto my pants legs and ended up with mud on my shoes. True, I didn't much care for getting wet, but I mainly hurried so because, just as we pulled up, I thought I saw the front door closing. Now it could have been that someone had heard the car and was looking out; but I had the distinct impression otherwise. I felt somehow that someone had been out, had in fact just gotten home, and that whoever it was had shut the door. Besides, anyone wishing to look out would have used the window. I wanted to know who it was, particularly since I had heard, or thought I heard, on several prior occasions the door slamming at a late hour, as if someone had either gone out or come back in. It's true I have not restricted my characters outright; nonetheless, I do not expect them to come and go without first informing me, so, in this regard, it was crucial I catch whoever was abusing my hospitality.
I saw no one upon my entry. Evidently they had all retired for the night. I decided to assemble them; perhaps signs of someone recently having been outside would become apparent once they were all together. I rang the buzzer I had installed for just such a purpose; they came forward and stood around me. I scrutinized them all, but could discern no sign of anyone's having just come in. I started to walk upstairs when it occurred to me I had given no reason for having summoned them (not that I was technically bound to, their being my guests in my house). I had to think of something quickly.
"I've called you here," I said, quite slowly, deliberately, thinking as I spoke (I don't recommend it, though, one gets a headache from over concentration), "in order, so that, because, and especially now, I would like to, ah, uhm, give you names - that's it: give you names!"
"We have names," Epsom replied.
"True, you do," I was compelled to accept his logic. "However, they are not suitable for my novel. I demand - as indeed I do in all things - perfection first and foremost. Impurities, imperfections and nonsense have no place in my work. Neither do second-rate names. So I've decided to assign you each a given name as a given character: the name must fit the character. Let's see. I'll start with you Epsom." I stared at him and thought and thought but could think of nothing save the name of the street we lived on (no doubt my intense concentration had emptied my mind temporarily of its wealth of names).
"Industrial Pike," I said.
"Hmm," mused Epsom. Then, nodding his head, "I like it - by God, old man, I dammy love it, what!" he said.
I was heartened by this; one never knows how quick his wit is until it's put to the test. I went on to the next. What came to mind was another street, this time Gordon Street, in the city.
"Gordon Street," I said.
"Good show!" Epsom declared, even though it was his brother upon whom I bestowed the name.
"Next!" I called. Styreen Smith stepped forward. This was certainly my day for geography. "Catherine Street!" I said, almost without thinking.
"Right off the map old bean!" Epsom complimented my choice. I soon saw that I had quite a talent for names. By the time I got to the last one - whom I named "Liberty Way," I was feeling pretty good. Then someone threw me, as it were, a curve.
"Now it's your turn," old Mr Newsworthy announced.
"My turn?" I asked, offended. Whoever heard of characters naming authors. Everyone, however, backed Newsworthy on this one; I could hardly believe it, but they did. "Why should I change my name?"
"Because," said Newsworthy, who had become a sort of spokesman, " we do not - none of us - wish to appear in a book by a poorly named author." Everyone seemed in agreement on this point. Epsom, whom I looked to for support, shrugged as if to say "What can I do? I'm outnumbered?" And, true, he was. Not that I had to give in - and would not have had someone not brought forward another, a far more important, point.
"Anyway," somebody said, "your book won't sell unless the name is just right. The name's as important as the title. It will not sell if the name is all wrong."
"Hmm," I mused, "not sell, eh? Surely my genius alone will sell the book," I insisted. They all shook their heads no. I couldn't help thinking of those little toys one sees in the rear windows of automobiles: the ones that shake their heads back and forth as the car vibrates. My characters reminded me of those things. "What? Genius not sell in America?" I asked. Again, a small sea rippling right and left. "Hmm," I mused again. "This is a new wrinkle. But, first things first. If new name it must be before it sells, then new name it is!"
Things are really quite simple when you reduce them to their essentials.
Some things require outside help; as I discovered, choosing the perfect name is one such. I worked on the problem for two whole days, thought and thought it over thoroughly - so much so that I had not touched the work itself and still came upon no perfect name for me, the author. Every name I could think of I wrote down, first and last name, a couple dozen combinations at least; but none were right. I even toyed with consulting the telephone directory, but it occurred to me that, should I use someone else's name, he might some day demand a percentage of my royalties or - worse yet - attempt to pass himself off as the author of my works. Suppose I suffered a mild stroke and remained speechless for a time: the man could in the interim completely destroy my carefully built reputation with his feeble attempts at writing. No, better to invent a name than take someone else's.
"I say old man, what name will you be using?" Epsom Salts asked. "Some of us are already preparing our resumes," he explained.
"I simply have not had time to work on it," I replied. (No one needed to know otherwise.)
Epsom grinned, as if he knew better, but maintained his discretion. "May I make a suggestion?" he asked.
"Please do, for God knows when I'll get to it," I said.
"Why not consult a numerologist?" he suggested.
"Don't you mean a namerologist?" someone quipped.
"Or a pseudonymerologist?" quipped another.
"Go on back to work!" an angry Epsom retorted. "What do you say, old man? Give it a try?" he asked me.
"Oh, why not?" I agreed. "What have I got to lose?"
On the advice of my gymnastics instructor from the Creatatorium, who I happened to encounter one day at the shopping mall, I visited a local numerologist named Bogdon Buchner, whose little shop was upstairs from the Links of Life health foods store. I knocked on his door. A moment later a very tall man wearing a burgundy turban and black cummerbund as accent to his gray flannel jumpsuit ushered me into a parlor, where I was invited to be seated on a huge purple floor pillow.
"Can I get sahib a fo-ti-tiey?" he asked, bowing politely.
"Hmm," I mused, "that's not a bad name."
"Ah!" he said. "Sahib has an excellent way with words!" He had evidently guessed that quickly that I was a writer. This spoke well of the place. Momentarily, just as he was returning with a cup of some kind of tea which he offered me, a smaller man, heavy set, wearing a long brocade robe of deep red trimmed in black velvet, entered from behind a curtain.
"Greetings," this second man said. "I trust my assistant, Eitnein, has treated you well. I am Bogdon Buchner, psychic, occultist, gerontologist, astrologer, palmist, numerologist, healer, exorcist, mesmerolingist. I studied four years with the Dali Lama."
"Ah," I said, "I love his paintings. Especially his Blue Period."
"Hmm," mused Buchner, "that must have been when the country was overrun. What can I do for you? A tarot reading perhaps?"
"No," I replied.
"A natal horoscope?" Again I said no. "Then a palm reading?" Still, it was no. "But of course," he said, "a Kirilian portrait!"
"No, I'm afraid not," I said. What I'd like -"
"Don't tell me, let me guess!" he cut me off. "Let's see," he mused, "not a portrait, nor a chart, nor a print. Shit, what's left? Ah! I have it: a look into the crystal ball!"
"Nope," I replied triumphantly.
Buchner and his assistant, Eitnein, went behind a paneled screen to consult. Buchner poked his head from behind the screen to ask if I wished psychic surgery. I shook my head no.
"I've got it!" he suddenly announced in a stupendous voice, nearly knocking over the screen with a wide flourish of his arms. He came running out, leaving his assistant to struggle with the screen.
"Numbers!" he cried. "You're into numbers!"
This time it was "yes."
"I knew it, I just knew it!" Buchner exclaimed triumphantly. "Well, then, let's get started," he said, seating himself across from me on a pink cushion. "Pick a number from 1 to 10."
"Three."
"No! Don't tell me what it is!" he almost screamed. "Try it again. Okay - have it? Now: double it. Now: add 2 to it. Subtract 4. Multiply by 7. What is your final product and I'll tell you your number?"
"Twenty-eight," I said.
"Your number is," he announced as he worked his fingers, "twelve!"
"Nope," I said. He guessed every number from 12 backward until he came to it.
"I thought I distinctly asked you to take another number," he said in an irritated voice.
"This is a different three," I explained.
"Oh. Now then, what is your date of birth?" I told him; he wrote it down. "And your full name." I told him that also; he wrote it down. After some brief calculations, he announced "Your birthpath is 27; your Destiny is 18; your Pinnacles are 13 and 7; your name itself registers as 122; and your Grand Total is 87. Is there anything else you would like today, Mr Doomby?"
"That's Domby: Roland R Domby, I corrected him, prompting another set of calculations, another round of numbers.
"What I would actually like," I finally got a chance to explain, "is a name: the perfect name for a great author. I thought perhaps numerology could provide one."
"If it can't, Domby, nothing can!" Buchner replied. He called his assistant, who had managed to right the screen; together they examined all my numbers, all the letters of my name, and even felt my head for bumps. "Phrenology is so close to numerology," Buchner explained. After several minutes of intense calculation, the great psychic Bogdon Buchner announced to me that there was no need to change anything: I already had the perfect name for a great author, my future was as good as done, and that would be $200.00. Did I care to charge it?"
"We take Visa, MasterCard, Choice, American Express - everything but your library card!" Buchner explained. Once I had charged it and was preparing to leave, Buchner offered to take a moment from his busy schedule to show me around the health foods store downstairs, if I wished. "I'm a junior business partner," he explained. "In fact, I owe everything I have to the Links of Life. Had our business not done so well, I could never have set up shop upstairs here. My psychic trade is in some respects an outgrowth of the health food trade. My partner, Kretchner, the agriculturist, grows his own organic foodstuffs. Come, you simply must meet him!"
I was taken downstairs and introduced as "The Great Domby." Kretchner grabbed my hand.
"How do you do sir?" he exclaimed, then hurried off to his other customers, who had been kept waiting. "Be right back!" he promised. I heard an elderly gentleman ask for Fo-Ti_Tiey capsules. In the meantime, Bogdon Buchner excused himself and returned upstairs. I could hear his footsteps overhead as he occasionally moved about - or perhaps they were those of his assistant, or perhaps both. While I waited for Kretchner to dispatch his regular customers, I happened to get into a conversation with a lady who had just entered. We traded amenities; on the weather, the value of certain vitamin and mineral additives, and so forth. She spoke of something she called "negative ions." I thought of the philosopher Sartre, of his "Being and Nothingness," which I used to carry to and from class at the University, though I never read a single paragraph (nor do I know of anyone who actually did read it). She said those negative ions were good for one's health. Then I happened to mention the initial purpose of my visit here: to acquire the perfect name. She asked for my name and date of birth. She did no calculations whatsoever, yet came up with what she claimed was the ideal name for me.
"When you submit your manuscript, Mr Domby," she said, "I strongly recommend you affix as your pseudonym the name 'Rondo.' It will provide your best chance of success. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get some ascorbic and be on my way."
I thanked her, of course, but hardly took her seriously - after all, I had just consulted the best numerologist in the business and was told my own name was perfect. What did she know - just somebody off the street? Momentarily, Mr Kretchner returned, offering me a cup of Ginsing tea.
"The perfect aphrodisiac," he pointed out. "I recommend several cups a day, and keep increasing the cup size. While you're here, you'd better get your Jojoba shampoo; it'll give you a new lease on life." He took a bottle from the shelf and set it beside the cash register. "Do you suffer from any maladies, sir?" he asked.
"Just cramps -" I started to say "in my fingers" but was cut short.
"Ah! I'll wager you eat peas," he surmised. "The nitrogen: peas, being legumes, the nitrogen might be what's causing your colic. I'd leave off peas awhile. Try our crunchy granola - all natural. Guaranteed no nitrates or any other preservatives." He took a very dusty box from the shelf and set it beside the shampoo. "Any sudden hair loss?" he then asked.
"Just what I've pulled out!" I quipped. Evidently he took me seriously.
"Comes out that easily, eh? Well, have no fear, our biotin cream has just arrived. One jar should do it. If not, come back next month and we'll sell you another jar. For hair, there's just no substitute for biotin in the big green jar." He set this beside the granola. My bill continued to mount. "I recommend to all my 'over 30' customers a facial moisturizer made from aloe vera. It works like a straw; your pores suck up moisture through it. The vera seems to help women the most, the aloe helps the men." A jar of this, too, he added to my purchases. "Have you been taking your vitamins sir?" he asked. I said no. "Been feeling run down, irritable, a little irregular? Better to be sure, so let's take the full line. Time-released and chelated, with added enzymes for the tum-tum; and an herbal laxative, with a natural softening agent." By the time he was finished, I had no fewer than fifteen items sitting beside the register. When he rang them up, my bill came to over fifty dollars.
"By the way," I asked, "who was that lady with the ascorbic?"
"Some health nut!" Kretchner replied. "Thinks you can get by with just vitamins and minerals!"
Just then a great commotion overtook us. A man - the elderly customer seeking Fo-Ti-Tiey, collapsed onto the floor. An ambulance was summoned. It seems he had suffered a stroke attempting to tear the plastic seal off the cap. Fortunately, as I later found out, he recovered with the aid of the Elixer of Life which, ironically, had almost killed him.
To speak the truth, I rather liked the sound of the name the lady in the Links of Life bestowed upon me: I certainly was a Rondo, if anything; yet the great Bogdon Buchner himself had distinctly assured me my own name could not be beaten. What was I to do? Rondo had a good ring to it; but Roland R Domby had been in effect given divine sanction. I decided to get input from my characters - not that I could be swayed one way or the other by their opinion, simply that, as their author, I ought to pay them lip service. I intended to call a general meeting the moment I arrived home. How could I have foreseen the terrible catastrophe which nearly befell me or that, as a result of it, I could completely forget my resolve?
It was, as usual, raining. Whereas it had been drizzling off and on practically all week, the rain suddenly began coming down in buckets. Fortunately - so I thought! - I had my umbrella with me, so that, while the wind necessitated taking firm hold on it, I at least need not get soaked to the very bone making from the taxi to my front door.
"Mack," the driver cautioned, "I don't advise using that sissy sash, not when we got gusts to 50-per! She'll take that there parey-sol and turn her to a parey-chute if you're not careful! Mark my words, Mack."
I thanked him for his advice, and took it for just what it was worth. First thing I did when I got out was put my umbrella up. The taxi drove off. I began walking the sidewalk which leads to my front porch. All of a sudden a tremendous gust of wind erupted, as if spewed from the very ground beneath me. It grabbed hold of my umbrella and, before I could let go, I had ascended nearly ten feet into the air and was traveling at a fearsome clip out over the lawn when, just as suddenly as it had come up, the wind died down. I was hurled to the ground; I had no time even to get my footing. Consequently, I tumbled headlong into what, in my distraught, disoriented state, I took for a pit of quicksand. The rain had thoroughly saturated my lawn, making no less than a marsh of it, a bog, a swamp full of mud and water which at first I expected to disappear into the very depths of.
"Help!" I cried. "Someone save me!" My lawn had become my judge, jury, executioner, and threatened to be my undertaker as well. I was at a loss what to do. I sank a good three inches into the mire before hitting solid ground. Once I realized I had stopped sinking, I breathed a sign of relief. Then, climbing back up, as it were, out of the grave, I collected my thoughts. My umbrella was a total ruin, however: one of Totes' best, now a virtual clothes rack lying beside me.
"Oh, sinister nature, thou sinister nature: scare a man half to death, beat his Totes to pulp!" I swore, fist raised into the mist. "Damnable night! Damnable!"
At last I made it to my front porch; and, there, soaking wet, a skeleton of bruised aluminum from which hung strips of mangled black cloth in my hand, I looked back out across my lawn. Not a blade of grass showed, a sea of mud all there was, as far as my eyes could see. Something must be done, I resolved. Mother Nature must not go unchecked. That we should take the trouble to clear this land, build so fine a house, buy and sell both land and house, trading value for value - and have it turned to swamp on a whim of nature? No, sir. No indeed sir! Not if I have anything to say about it!
As soon as was feasible, I resolved to invite a professional landscaper to examine my property and advise me on how best to combat the ravages of nature. Perhaps, too, while he was at it, I could get a recommendation on ornamentals, shrubs, flowers, perhaps even a birdbath or water fountain. My house being split-level, certain types of decoration would undoubtedly best suit its aspect; exactly which ones, I could not say, though I suspected taller, tree-like bushes would be ideal. The small, rounded ones, I did not wish, even though I already had some boxwoods and yews. All of this, however, had to wait its turn.
I was fast at work on my masterpiece. Beside me at all times was Strunk & Wagnall's "Elements of Style," and, next to it, my carefully drawn outline. I am vaguely familiar with the form versus content argument of literature; I am aware too that form is seen as having by far the greater import. In a sense I'm glad this is so: it makes small lapses in the imagination much less apparent. I find it easier to stick to a given pre-determined form than to constantly be thinking up new things to say or new ways to say them. Not that my story suffers one iota for want of content; but even if it did, so long as I preserve the original form, I am on pretty safe ground - and, as modern literature shows, in good company.
Even the most zealous author needs a rest, so I set my pen down and made for the characters' quarters. Just as I was opening my door, the pull of a sudden draft brought my attention to the front door, which was just being shut, from outside. I hurried down but it was too late: whoever had gone out had disappeared into the night. I summoned my right hand man - my shop foreman, as I jokingly called him.
"What is it, old bean?" Epsom Salts asked.
"Who just left?" I asked.
"I've no idea," he replied. "Did someone leave?"
"I distinctly saw the door close. Perhaps this is as good a time as any to call everyone together," I suggested. "That way we'll find out who it was; and, at the same time, impress upon them again the need for obtaining permission before venturing out. So, if you will, please call them."
It never ceases to amaze me how so many people managed to live in so small a space as the downstairs of my split-level. True, there was a den plus a full basement plus one bedroom and one bath (in addition to the kitchen, dining room and living room, the latter being essentially our assembly room); nevertheless, there were some twenty or so people under my roof, packed like sardines into my home. Not that it mattered all that much, since they were characters and, as such, quite used to occupying small spaces (how could it be otherwise?). Characters were, after all, kind of like workers in a factory (to use a metaphor); their author (to broaden the metaphor) like the owner of a factory. Common sense tells you the owner needs more space than those who work for him. Besides, hardship is good for the soul, it helps toughen them up, makes them, in fact, better workers. Were I to confine myself, let's say, to my study alone, and turn my other rooms over to them, I would actually be doing them a disservice: they're used to the way things are, it would be wrong to change them. This is what's meant by Social Ethics. In fact, I'm going to write a treatise on that very subject next time around.
"Now that you're all here," I announced when everyone had assembled. "That is," I added, "all but one. Or possibly more. Now that you're here," I reiterated, "I have two things to take care of. First, I remind you again - and cannot stress too strongly - that no one is to leave these premises without my permission. All you have to do is go to Epsom, tell him what you want and why you want it. He, in turn, will present your request to me. Usually I'll be able to let him know right then and there; in rare cases, however, when I'm busy working, I may set your request aside and act on it later. At any rate, I want you to be perfectly familiar with the channels of command, as it were: from you to Epsom to me and back. I regret the necessity, but I cannot allow any of you direct access to me, I have simply too much work to accomplish. Now to the second thing I called you here for: someone has - or some persons have - been coming and going entirely at will of late! This in fact is what prompted me to call this meeting. I want to know who or whom -"
No, I thought, I said that wrong. Whom is not the plural of who. What is though? Whose? Whoevers? Or is that whose-ever?
"Hmm," I mused. "At any rate," I continued, "I want to know -"
Here I was interrupted. "How's your work coming?" someone asked. The question was immediately taken up.
"Yeah," asked another, "how is your novel coming?"
"Taking shape?"
"What form?"
"Yeah, what form?"
"Hold it!" I said. "Hold it! One thing at a time. The work is coming along beautifully."
"Exactly how a work of art should come along!" someone suggested.
"Unless it's Dadaistic!" somebody took exception.
"Or Surrealistic!"
"I want no 'istics' in my house, please!" I put an end to that line of thought right there and then. "Isms and istics and isticisms and istices and the like I don't need. I'm an artist. Just give me a pad and a pencil and let me go to it!"
A burst of applause greeted this pronouncement. My characters' good sense pleased me.
"What form though? Parody? Farce? Satire? Romance? Tragedy? Melodrama?"
"A little of each," I said. "Each in its own turn," I explained at greater length.
"Picaresque?"
"Yes, I think that's a fair assessment," I replied. "I'm very careful where the form is concerned. I demand only the best, the very most modern - nothing less will do. My outline itself, I think you might find more in the manner of a sonnet. Four full pages, properly indented and spaced, very neat and orderly. My preface, well, it's straight forward."
"Like a straight line," somebody added.
"Yes, rather like a straight line, as opposed to, say, an ellipsis," I pointed out.
"Your structure, though, is elliptic, you say?"
"Very much so," I admitted.
"Any parallel constructions?"
"I've noticed a few here and there," I further admitted.
"Diametrical opposites?"
"One at the beginning, possibly one at the end," I owned.
"Equilateral triangles - got any of them?"
"Time will tell," I hedged a bit on this one.
"I want to have a rhomboid the part I'm in!" someone demanded with great intensity.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Or even a trapezoid!"
"I'll think about it."
"A plain old rectangle wouldn't be half bad either."
"Everything will be taken into consideration," I answered. "Now, if there are no more questions, I really must be getting back to work. And a good evening to all of you."
The attentive readers have no doubt noticed that I completely forgot to inquire further into the identity of the person or persons who had of late slipped out of my house. I got sidetracked by our discussion of form versus content in imaginative literature - important enough an issue to sidetrack any great author from the more mundane concerns. By the time I remembered what I had called the meeting about in the first place, I was fast at work and did not wish to interrupt my train of thought.
"Damn it!" I said aloud. "I still don't know who it is keeps coming and going like that. Oh well, I'll worry about it later. Let's see now: where was I?"
Nor could I inquire the next day: I had a very busy schedule. I arose at eight A.M. (earlier even than my usual hour); and by nine I was on my way into the city. I had received a call two days earlier from my agent, who in turn had been contacted by my attorney who, acting on behalf of my publisher, had relayed a message that my printer had been attempting to contact me at my former address but had been unsuccessful. In truth I did not recall having introduced my attorney to my publisher or even mentioning him; evidently I had though, which was a boon, for otherwise no one would have been able to apprise me of my printer's concern. I went first to my agent, to see if anything had been done yet concerning the movie rights to my novel, and so on.
"We're working hard on it," my agent informed me. "I've sent letters to the major studios. You don't want to fool with any of the independents - they're just that: independent. Too independent! Before you know it, they'll have the thing so artsied-up, no one but a critic would give five cents to go see it."
Since what I had to say was important, I had to go along with limiting myself to major studios. Why write a great novel just to have it turned into a movie with no mass appeal? I commended my agent for his brilliant logic, as well as for his humanitarianism. It was an inspiration working with someone who understood how much mankind would profit from my work: I resolved to write a brief essay extolling the virtue of literary agents.
Next I paid my attorney a visit. I felt, as I had the first time, a bit uneasy entering this building right in the middle of 8th Avenue's Red Light District. I especially felt uneasy getting into the elevator with the very same operator who had so insulted me by offering to procure male and female models for me: I just assumed he would have been fired by now for harassing the clients. Not only was he still working, he had the audicity to actually make the same offer to me again!
"I can get 'em in all sizes and shapes," he added, seeing his offer once more rejected.
"I am not the kind of man you take me for!" I advised in a menacing voice.
"Ah," he said, "now I see. You're not into two-legged beasts, are you? My aunt and uncle have a little farm just outside town, they raise sheep, goats, cows, horses, pigs - you name it. Occasionally the critters...pose," he winked as he said this. I made no reply; I was too horrified to say anything. Thank goodness the door opened, so I could get out of there. I resolved to take the stairs from now on.
Suite 301: there it was, exactly as I had left it, with one glaring exception: the secretary who had behaved so scandalously was gone. Evidently Elkins had taken my advice and dismissed her. In her place was, well, I must admit a certain disappointment here, for in her place was an extremely buxom young lady who appeared, if it were possible, even more out of place in an attorney's office. I can only assume these ladies are sent over by an employment agency - not a very discriminating one at that. This receptionist had flaming red hair and enough makeup on to make me think she was on stage at a burlesque theater (not that I had ever visited one, but, as an author, I can imagine what they must be like). Her blouse couldn't have been more sheer without the aid of cellophane.
She looked me over. "Got the payment?" she asked brusquely.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You heard me, Pisspot," she replied. "Hand over the dough and beat it. Elkie don't want to see you around here. The fuzz might put 2 and 2 together. So pay up and go!"
"I don't know who you've confused me with, young lady," I said, "but I assure you I am not here to turn my good hard earned money over to Mr Elkins. I pay by checks for his legal services. I happen to be one of his most important clients - if not the most important! If you'd be so kind, please tell him Roland Domby, of Rodon Incorporated, is here to see him."
The receptionist buzzed. "Oh Elkie-Belkie," she drawled into the intercom, "a Mr. Roadrunner or something like that is here to see you."
"That's Rodon," I corrected her, without realizing I was no more Mr. Rodon than Mr. Roadrunner.
"Okay," she replied, "it's close enough, don't drown your crabs!"
Elkins appeared at his door, motioning me into his office. "Hold all calls!" he informed his secretary.
"Calls - balls!" she pouted.
"Later, babe!" replied Elkins.
"As one professional to another," I said as I seated myself, "may I be so bold as to make a suggestion?"
"Shoot," Elkins said.
"It is a mistake, I think, to allow one's employees to fraternize with, or speak too informally to, oneself. We, as employers, must maintain our position of authority."
"Don't I know it!" agreed Elkins. "When Cherry-Bell out there gets too friendly, a good slap across the butt puts her in her place pronto! So anyway, Domby, you should have told me you were preparing to add publishing to your list of acquisitions. By God old Timpony's been calling all day asking for you. As your attorney I need to know what's going on. Keep me posted, man. I can't grease the right palms if I don't know what you're going to gobble up next. You don't want the shit to hit the fan. Me, I know how to deflect. That's what I do best. Connections galore: that's me."
"Yes, in fact," I took the opportunity to inquire, "I was wondering how you happened to know my publisher."
"Uhm. Yes. Good point, Domby. But I'm sure you know I can't divulge anything about any of my clients to a third party - unethical!"
I nodded. I should have thought of that.
"Excuse me," Elkins said, the intercom having sounded. "Yeah, Cherry?"
"Elkie, the runner was just here. I have the payment."
"Okay, thanks."
As I had no business here today but had merely stopped in to pay my attorney a visit, I stayed only a short while. Next, I stopped by to see my publisher. Upon admittance to his office - as before, I found it necessary to admit myself - I found him standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pocket, exactly as I had left him the last time I was here, except that his head was lifted back, his face to the ceiling, as if he were searching for something. I cleared my throat to acknowledge my presence.
"Chipper, I don't see how they did it," Mr Timpony, my illustrious publisher, observed, still glancing upward. "A whole computer, and not so much as a wire anyplace. You boys at ACCC are top-drawer, Chipper. Top-drawer."
Timpony showed no sign of lowering his head, so I simply spoke right out. "Actually," I said, "I'm not Chipper but Domby - Roland R Domby, Mr Timpony."
"Hmm," he seemed to be musing, "Roland R Domby Mister Timpony, you say. The last part of your name is almost the same as the company I work for." Finally he lowered his head. "Are we related?" he asked.
"I don't believe so," I replied.
"Good," he said. "We have terrible health in our family," he explained. "It's just as well you're somebody else's relation. Could I offer you some caviar?"
"Why, yes, thank you," I replied. But he made no move either to get anything or to summon his receptionist. He did, however, begin fumbling in his pocket. "By the way," I asked, more to break the silence he had let fall than out of any real interest, "who is Chipper?"
"Ah, you've met - good. A most brilliant man. He manages our business. He does something to paper and it...it's just so complicated. Somehow he manages to sell it. He's with ACCC - American Consolidated Computer Chip: they own us now. He's had a computer installed somewhere in this very building and I'm determined to discover where. See up there," he drew my attention to the spot on the ceiling he had been staring at when I came in, "doesn't it seem to you someone has rearranged the plaster I had imported from Paris?"
"No," I replied, "I don't think so. Perhaps the computer was placed on another floor - perhaps near the business office," I suggested.
"I don't know. Perhaps, but it sounds rather too simplistic. And I've seen those miniature computers you hold in your hand -"
"They're only chips, parts of the computer, not the whole computer," I pointed out.
"It wasn't a part of anything, Timpony!" he said, a little irritated. "It sat there on Chipper's palm quite by itself, I assure you. Well, no matter, I'll find it, sooner or later. A family trait; get it from my grandfather: that man could find a beetle in a haystack. You could put a pile of junk there, across the room, and he'd find anything you might have hidden. I saw him go into our library once - we had all these things lined up, row upon row, and do you know, he found just the one particular one he was looking for? I timed him. From the moment he entered till the second he found it was exactly one minute and sixteen seconds. 'Ah! Here it is: Goncharov!' he exclaimed. I can still hear him saying it. A genius. I always wondered why he went into publishing when he'd have made so excellent a detective - but, who can speculate what moves a man to do what he does? By the way, what can I do for you?"
I explained that my visit was primarily social, and that I was actually on my way to see the printer, who had relayed a message by way of him, Timpony, that he wished to see me.
"You, in turn, had contacted my attorney, who contacted my agent, who called me last evening," I explained the complex sequence of events the message had prompted. For some reason Timpony began searching through all his pockets, even turning some of them inside out.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I have no such message. Perhaps it was some other Timpony to whom it was given. My cousin Timothy, most likely. He owns the telephone company. He's married to a descendent of the man who created the first one. I can't give you his number, it's unlisted. My receptionist may have it though."
He resumed his search of the ceiling; and I my odyssey, which took me next to my printer, whose wish to contact me had initiated it in the first place. I had not seen his place of business prior to this; we had only talked on the telephone, and of course we had shared a drink at Bartleby's, his gentleman's club downtown. Now here I was at his plant. Not a big place really, but reasonably well-kept considering the unfortunate dependency he or any other entrepreneur has on his employees to police their work area. Scattered about the grounds was some litter, mostly paper, some magazines, a few beer cans - of all things - and some nondescript refuse. The building, an old frame and cinder block warehouse, vaguely a greenish color, like the inside of a government building, stood surrounded by a concrete drive (at any rate, on the three sides visible from the front). Various trucks - vans, one or two pick-ups - were parked along the left side; evidently there was a loading dock. Curiously, none of the trucks had the name of the establishment on them; they read everything but Acme Printing, which the sign over the front entrance gave as the name of the enterprise. Oddly, the word Acme - a name as common as it is prestigious - was spelled incorrectly: it read "Acccme," as if it had stuttered its way onto the sign. Perhaps this was to distinguish it from other Acme concerns.
I went in. No one was about; and, as there was neither a directory in the foyer nor signs of any sort on any of the doors, I had to make my way as best I could to my printer's office. Had it not been so urgent that he see me I might have waited for someone to come along and direct me; as it was, I felt I ought to find my own way. I took a number of false turns before I came upon the right office: into a closet I almost stepped, down to the basement, into some kind of film processing room where what must have been dozens of reels of movie film were stretched like clotheslines to dry, and, most curiously of all, into a room ablaze with the light of, I would estimate, at least a dozen or so flood lamps. At the far end of this odd room there stood a perfectly naked man, as if posing. Even as I was shutting the door, I caught what I was certain was a naked woman walking toward the man. Something about this man was vaguely familiar; I had seen him someplace before, though at the time I could not remember where.
Finally I came to my printer's office. There he was, seated behind his desk, a plain wooden desk in the center of a plain office almost devoid of decoration.
"Domby!" he arose and stretched out his hand. "Thank goodness I was able to get a message to you. I need to discuss the design for the book jacket. Not the final design necessarily, but just the preliminary. We'll get the finished product when we get your photographs."
His mention of photographs prompted me to inquire about the naked man I saw in the flood-lit room. "He appeared to be posing," I explained.
"Oh yes," the printer replied, "that must have been our newest unknown author. He's written a book on Nudist Camps; and though we'll of course only show from the shoulders up on the back cover, still, as a nudist, he feels it would be hypocritical to pose for a book on Nudist Camps other than in the altogether."
"Has he a co-author?" I asked, explaining about the woman I thought I had seen.
"Why yes, now that you mention it, I believe his wife co-authored it with him. In fact I'm sure."
"That explains it," I said. "Has he written anything else?" I asked. "I know I've seen him somewhere but I can't recall where."
"Oh, he's written any number of books," the printer replied, at which I let the subject drop: we had more important things to do than ponder where I had seen this writer before.
Together we went over some preliminary designs, after which I returned home. Right away, upon entering my part of the house, I noticed something amiss. First, my drapes were drawn, and I distinctly remember leaving them open. Then, my chair was pulled farther out from the desk than I ever leave it. Worse still - and most disturbing of all - some of my papers, my notes, had been moved. I always keep my notes in perfect order; they were out of sequence. In a word, someone had clearly been in here while I was away.
I was aghast. Piracy, right here in my very office? I thought. How could it be? Who would wish to disturb anything I had written? Yet all the signs pointed to it. What else of such enormous value was there here? It had to be my writing, my ideas, my plot structure, my themes, my denouements, my climax and anti-climax, my character developments -
"Ah," I mused as a thought came to me. "Perhaps not to pirate my work but only to see where they stand as characters: perhaps that's what they were looking for." I had a firm hold of this rationale when I saw something which, sadly, dissuaded its acceptance; or, more precisely, I failed to see something - namely, a note I had made last week, but not just any note, for this one simple five line notation was undoubtedly the single most significant thing I had done thus far. It told the whole of my plan in a single sentence. My memory being keen, I could easily enough reconstruct it: that wasn't the point, though. It was gone - that was the point. It had been (and I see no way around it: it had been stolen!). What a truly sorrowful day in the life of a great author when his beloved characters go to pilfering his works. I could only shake my head at this, and wonder what possible good would be served by so ignoble a deed. Who could profit from such a theft? Were my characters bent upon writing their own version of my novel? I wondered. Or - and here I nearly fainted from the implication -
"Or are they working at the behest of some rival author?" I asked aloud as I stood beside my desk pondering this new and unexpected twist. I was too heart sick to do anything. I decided to call a general meeting. Once my characters had been assembled, I descended to the first step, from which I made my announcement.
"My dear workers," I said as softly as I could in order to buffer the inevitable shock (for I certainly did not suspect everyone of this terrible deed), "there appears to be among you...a thief. But not just any thief. This one takes, not riches from the rich, or pittances from the poor, or collections from the church, or -" Here I was interrupted.
"Or candy from a baby!" someone called out, doubtless to help me.
"Or candy from a baby," I acknowledged the truth of the sentiment.
"Or peas from a pod!" cried another.
"Or beans from Boston!" said yet another.
"Or tea from China!" I could barely keep up with all the examples. They each wanted to do what little they could to help.
"Or fire from flies!"
"Or even stink from shit!"
"We get the point," I was forced to put a halt to the analogies. "No, none of those do they take. Far worse, my dearest friends and fellow workers, they seek to take genius from an artist. Of course they will fail: getting that which he creates, they get only the lees of his efforts, as it were, which, in the hands of anyone but himself are fruitless."
"Did you say 'leaves?'" someone asked.
"He said 'leeks,'" someone else replied.
"He did not, he said 'leeches,'" yet another added.
"The important thing," I went on, "is that my genius remains intact, unscathed, ready to carry on our great work!"
A burst of applause greeted this happy statement. I was truly moved, and thanked my workers.
"I say old man," a familiar voice from among the cacophony of anonymous ones now addressed me, "you said, if I understood correctly, one among us is a thief?"
I replied most gravely to my assistant Epsom Salts' query. "Indeed," I said, "I'm afraid there's no alternative. Someone was in my study. Someone was sitting in my chair -"
"Were they sleeping in your bed too?" another unfamiliar voice asked.
"Did they eat your porridge?" yet another inquired.
"No," I replied to both, "but someone was at my desk. Some of my notes are gone. Paper, as you know, does not disappear - let alone words written upon it. No, my friends, I'm afraid there is no getting around it: someone has sifted through my notes - through the ingredients of my thought, my philosophy, my schemata." Again I was interrupted.
"Did he say 'schemâta' or 'schemáta'?" a voice asked to know.
"I say schemáta...you say schemâta," came the reply from another anonymous voice.
In truth I was growing weary of these asides every time I held a meeting: they were becoming a distraction . In the back of my mind I vowed to acquaint myself with my characters' various voices so as to be aware who was doing the interrupting, upon which discovery I intended to adjust their wages: if their chatter cost me precious time, why should it not in turn cost them money?
"Please," I said with great authority, "no more interruptions. I've made my point, let me simply reiterate: it appears someone has stolen some of my notes. Either that or else we've been burglarized, which seems unlikely considering this fine neighborhood."
"May I say a word, old man?" a most polite Epsom Salts asked. I gave him permission. "There has been news of a burglar operating in this area of late," he said, explaining that - incredible as it seemed - this appeared to be the MO of a famous international art thief. "His exploits include Old Masters, First Editions, Ming Vases of the Chen period, sculptured masks, 78 RPM RCA Red Seal records, and, as his newest ploy, the manuscripts of up-and-coming great authors."
"My manuscript is intact," I pointed out.
"Ah, yes, but, old bean," Epsom countered, "your manuscript is of less value till it's complete."
"Quite true," I acknowledged. "But then, think how much less valuable my notes must be."
"This must be a notorious thief!" another of these annoying voices offered.
"Hush up!" Epsom demanded. "This is serious business here! If you'll permit a hypothesis," he hinted. I said I would. "I suspect the burglary of your notes was simply to see if he had much trouble getting inside."
"Don't anyone say it was an 'inside job'!" I caught them all in time. No one said it. Addressing Epsom again, I recommended setting up a watch outside lest the burglar return and steal more of my notes or - God forbid! - my half written manuscript itself, just for practice. "You could all take turns. Go in shifts."
"The ladies'll wear shifts," came a voice, "and perchance 10% of the men, but you won't catch the rest of us in any such attire!"
Everybody laughed.
"By the way," asked Gypsum Salts, "what's the title of your book?"
"Yes," others joined in, "what's it called?"
"Well," I hesitated, "I have not entirely fixed upon a title just yet. I rather thought I'd let the title arise, as it were, out of the finished work."
"Gonna call it 'The Erection,' eh?" someone asked.
Needless to say, I was scandalized by such an untoward suggestion. "I will let you know what its title is when I feel it's time you knew!" I replied angrily. "Now, I have work to do. You are all dismissed."
I returned to my study, but found it difficult concentrating on my novel. I got up and paced about. All of a sudden my attention was drawn toward a note lying just inside the door; evidently it had been pushed under while I was at my desk. Picking it up I read it.
"Remember Charlie McCarthy," it said.
I was puzzled. What can a demagogic politician have to do with me? I wondered. I set the note aside and tried writing once again.
I awoke in the middle of the night in a terrible state. I had been dreaming, and, in my dream, a group of people claiming to be editors of literary magazines were chasing me with clubs in their hands, while they recited the publication standards of their respective journals. Their voices were robot-like; indeed, so were their movements. Each ended up by shouting, in a monstrous voice like the grinding of huge wheels, "Query First!" Over and over this litany: "Query First!" "Query First!" in a hundred different mechanical voices. Suddenly there came upon them a tremendous being, fifty feet tall with huge hands and feet, and ear lobes which hung to its waist. It wore gold and diamonds on every finger, and a three piece suit of platinum woven solids. I thought at first it was going to eat all the editors; instead it crouched down and, to my absolute horror, they all came running and, in the wink of an eye, had disappeared into its rump. The being turned toward me and, grinning, motioned with its index finger for me to approach. Slowly I did; but before I could reach the designated spot, a tremendous explosion of sorts occurred from where the editors had entered and a most noxious wind knocked me winding. At that precise instant I awoke and, as I did, I became instantly aware of a noise around me - a real noise - sounding simultaneously with the explosion in my dream.
"Good God!" I cried. "What was that?" I jumped out of bed and hurried downstairs, where a few of my characters had already assembled: evidently they, too, had heard it. Outside a furious wind pounded the windows, rattling the glass. A couple of the braver souls among us ventured out into the night; I remained behind guarding the light switch so no one accidentally turned it off. When they returned, their faces were pale.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Come see," they urged me on. I hesitated, ever solicitous for the orderly conduct of my household; but, after a moment, I joined them outside.
"Good God!" I exclaimed. There, on the front lawn, was no less a thing than my chimney - the top part of it anyway. It had fallen, apparently taking a huge section of roofing with it as it did. My front lawn was a shambles.
The first thing that morning I summoned my realtors, Messrs Legitt, Barnhide and Schoop-Schoop. I showed them the work of the wind. They shook their heads, a tear was evident on Schoop-Schoop's eyelash.
"We know the wind only too well," said Legitt.
"We build these houses like the Rock of Gibraltar," said Barnhide.
"And still the wind plays havoc," said Schoop-Schoop, who at this point had to be helped to the sofa, he had become so distraught. An icepack was fetched for his fevered brow.
"Lie still," he was told by his associates; "and if the wind picks up -" Schoop-Schoop shuddered - "cover your head with a pillow till it abates." In the meantime Legitt and Barnhide assessed the damage.
"For ten thousand," they said, "we can repair this." I thanked them and promised to visit my banker to collect the requisite loan. Schoop-Schoop too was collected by his associates and taken back to their office.
I was on my way out the door when a traveling salesman happened by. I told him I was in a hurry, I was on my way to my bank.
"Won't take a minute," he assured me, pulling out from every pocket a separate mechanical device. He had tiny brushes "For sub-atomic particles," he explained; big brushes "For super nova remnants"; medium brushes "For third magnitude debris"; and he had can openers, and doorknobs, and key chains, and a complete line of "How-To Books" - the books, he didn't have on his person, only the order blanks.
"I have my complete assortment in the trunk of my car," he said, perhaps assuming me to be disappointed at his rather meager store. Actually, I was in a hurry to get going; I expected my taxi any moment.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but, you see, I am an author, and as such have no need for ordinary things. So if you'll excuse me."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute," he said, holding up his hand, "I've got what you need. Right here. Solve all your problems." He reached deep into his breast pocket, took out a small piece of gold cloth, very carefully unwrapped it, and withdrew from it an exceedingly thin, tiny thing which looked like a sliver of metal from its side, a small square full face. He then took from his coat pocket a pair of tweezers, with which he took hold of the object and lifted it slightly into the air, his motion careful, even reverent.
In a voice of awe, he introduced it as "A Computer Chip." I asked what that was. "The future," he replied almost in a whisper. "It will do anything. Anything. Whatever the mind of man can envision, this baby will execute."
"How does it work?" I asked.
"You simply integrate it into your Personal Computer, program it, set it, forget it. Like a little sorcerer it weaves its magic about it. Wonder rays created deep inside your computer criss-cross it; it catches, holds, dispels them, transmitting pure energy into pure matter. Electrical impulses into an image on your cathode ray tube - your video screen, in layman's terms. And whatever you want to store shall be stored, your wish its command. It is a miracle of modern engineering and technology. Here, take it, hold it, experience it, let it impact upon you. Be one with it. For as a great author, you surely of all persons must see its awesome majesty."
"Where do you get these?" I asked.
"From a far-away land," the salesman replied, "a deep valley in the far, far West. Here, take it, hold it, know it."
I reached for it. Just then the taxi, which had entered unnoticed into my street and was coming to a halt in front of my house let out a loud beep. Both of us started. The fabulous chip was knocked from our hands; it went sailing across the lawn.
"Oh dear!" I cried. "What shall we do? It may sink into the mud!"
"Have no fear," replied the traveling salesman, "I have more in my glove compartment. First let's get rid of this G.D. taxi - I'll take you myself to the bank - then I'll get another chip and we can discuss terms."
Together we dispatched the taxi. "Now then," I said, "how much?"
"Normally they retail for one thousand dollars," he replied. "The deluxe model, that is, with circuits to spare - room to record an entire book! However, as a special introductory offer, I can let you have it for five-hundred, plus tax. My company - ACCC - is coming out soon with a super deluxe model, with extra built-in features: part of our new Artists and Geniuses Line. And since I feel certain you'll qualify for your very own, that's why I'm able to let you have this at one dollar above invoice. Have we a deal sir?"
How could I refuse? Together, we drove to my bank; at every stop light, every yield-right-of-way, every school crossing - at every available opportunity - he reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a tiny cellophane packet which he beckoned me to open. No sooner had I opened one than he shook his head and asked me to put it back.
"Wrong chip," he would say. This went on several times until at last, just as we neared the bank, I opened one which satisfied him.
"There you go!" he cried in relief. "Our special extra deluxe model, ready to receive the novel of your choice. Eight hundred bucks, plus tax!"
"Perhaps this is not the right one after all," I ventured. "The one you mentioned earlier was, I believe, the deluxe model, at five hundred - one dollar over invoice."
"Put it back," he said. "Let's try again, since we're on so tight a budget."
Lo and behold! Just as I was attempting to replace the chip into its wrapper a gust of wind came up and ripped it right out of my hand.
"Oh catch it! Catch it!" I cried, reaching for it. The wind - which had entered through my window (I only had it down a quarter of the way) - carried the chip just past the salesman and, as he grabbed madly for it (almost wrecking the car), clear on out his window, which was also down.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "There it goes! If you stop quickly maybe we can still find it - do you think we can?"
"No matter," he replied, "I've got more. They're a dime a dozen." He reached again into the glove box.
At last the correct chip was found. "A real gem," he said. "One of a kind. A real beast! Our deluxe model. Stripped. No frills. No extras. Just plain old chip. Five hundred. Plus one dollar for processing the Invoice. Plus tax. Plus title and registration. Installation is extra. Do you want us to install it? We can if you want."
"Is is difficult to install?" I asked, recalling his informing me earlier that it was easy to install.
"Oh no, no," he replied. "Nothing easier. But for the warranty we recommend company installation at a modest fee."
We had arrived at my bank. Carefully, I returned the chip to the salesman, who returned it to its wrapper and put in in his breast pocket. Inside, we were greeted by the teller Madeline, who took us directly to her employer.
"Ah, Domby! It's you!" exclaimed Horace Hokum-Poicus as he arose and stretched out his hand. "How in the world are you?" I said I was fine and proceeded, to my embarrassment, to attempt introducing my companion: embarrassment because, just as I was commencing the introduction, I realized I had no idea who he was.
"This is -" I hesitated. Luckily he completed his own introduction.
"Charles 'Charlesie' Chipstone," he announced.
"Charles, it's so good to meet any friend of Domby's!" Hokum-Poicus declared.
"Just call me Chipper," said Charles.
"Gentlemen: what can I do for you?" asked the banker.
I explained the catastrophe which had struck my house and the assessment of damages my realtors had made, then I apprised him of the additional five hundred and one dollars I would need for the computer chip. Something occurred to me.
"Oh dear," I said, "I don't have a personal computer. I'd better take out a loan for one. Do either of you gentlemen know what they retail for?"
"Domby," declared Hokum-Poicus, "I won't hear of you investing your hard-earned money on a computer when we have half a dozen sitting out back just waiting to be carted off. Now don't get me wrong, they're not defective, they're just...well...slightly obsolete - for our purposes, that is! You know perfectly well I wouldn't offer you something too dated! They'll do fine for home use, it's just that they only hold one million when we now need one million and two. So they'll all have to be replaced. You just, before you leave, go right out back and pick out one you like and I'll have it delivered first thing in the morning."
After I had the money and after I purchased the chip, Chipper and I went around back and looked the discarded computers over. I spotted one in a silver gray that not only would go perfect in my study but would beautifully accommodate the chip I had just bought. Plus it was small enough to be moved aside when my study was cleaned twice a week ( a task I had assigned Newsworthy, who in truth had proven virtually useless to me as a character: he may as well do something to earn his keep while living under my roof and through my generosity).
Chipper and I, on the way home, discussed at some length the great value of computers.
"Plus," I said, "look at all the paper they save. The trees can be left standing, what with conservation and all."
"True," he agreed. "All those trees being wasted on paper when they could be going for firewood, not to mention building new ranchers. A lot of valuable timber'll be released for construction, for engineering, for road building, and just plain old cutting up for the hell of it!"
A true businessman, Chipper was. Right down to the bone. What a joy to have met him.
Having my new computer chip, I could not refrain from showing it to my characters - a generosity which almost provoked a disaster. Certainly a major disorder. To be perfectly blunt, they almost walked off the job, which demonstrates nothing if not the fickleness of employees, not to mention their envy of their superiors, a most disagreeable trait.
I was all excitement upon my return. I had asked my dear friend Chipper to please stop at my realtors so I could pay them to repair the damage done to my house. It only took a moment. Barnhide and Legitt thanked me and promised to contract for the repairs just as quickly as their associate, Schoop-Schoop, recovered his composure. From his office emanated a swooshing noise: it was Schoop-Schoop, they explained, pretending to be the wind.
"Why," I asked, "if it frightens him so?"
"Conversion Therapy," they both replied, explaining, in turns, that their real estate firm was a lifetime member - a Charter member in fact - in the You Can Be The You You Were Always Intended To Be Training and Personal Improvement Group Encounter and Seasonal Seminar Sessions.
"We learn to cope," said Barnhide.
"To make stress work for us," added Legitt.
"When things get out of control, we assume the identity of the offending agent, be it human or beast, machine or force of nature, until we are able to convert its energy to positive usage. Thus the name: Conversion Therapy. Our associate is the wind, his nemesis, and will remain so till its energy is converted to better use. He's been at it since our return. And it's he who knows the name of our chimney contractor. So we'll have to wait."
When Chipper dropped me off - promising to return when my computer was delivered from the bank - I returned immediately to my workers and displayed the fabulous chip. They all gathered around.
"Let me see!" they each said. "Let me see!" "Let me see!"
Then one of them brought forth a different - a most ominous - motif.
"You must be doing well to afford this," he said, a sentiment as contagious as it was damaging to any proper working arrangement, for it prompted one after another to forego the enchantment of my chip in favor of more mundane considerations.
"You'll need a computer too," someone observed.
"They cost - they really cost!" said another.
"Hey," someone reasoned with that false logic so typical, I'm sorry to say, of the working classes, "if you can afford all that hardware and software, you can afford to give us a raise!"
"Yeah, we sure could use a raise around here!"
"Hey, yeah, really!"
"For sure."
This was a situation which called for complete honesty. "Just hold it a minute," I said. "Things are not what they seem. You mustn't take this to mean I've got any money to spare, for I don't. By the time I meet all my expenses, I've barely a dime left over for myself - and that's the truth! Why, heavens, this computer you've got me purchasing is in reality being given to me. I have no idea if it will even work. And as for the chip: well, I'm getting it for one thin dollar over cost. Just one dollar. Just one dollar is all. One. Just one."
"One thin dollar," I was reminded.
"Thank you: one thin dollar."
"Minus the dime the computer's not going to cost you, old man," added a most welcome voice.
"Thank you, Epsom," I said. "So really, ninety cents is all. "Who wants ninety cents? You want it? Okay." I got out ninety cents in change. "I'll divide it among you if you insist. Who insists upon his share of ninety cents?"
No one insisted. They all walked off. Epsom turned to me, winked, too the ninety cents from me, and also left. I returned to my work.
Whether the wind's felling of my chimney unearthed some long reposing spirits, or the activity and resultant hole in my roof invited wandering spirits to investigate, I cannot, of course, say; or perhaps some natural phenomenon as yet undeciphered was at work. At any rate, almost immediately upon the heels of the catastrophe a number of things so unusual in nature happened that even an old skeptic like myself was forced to consider the likelihood of supernatural intervention. As if nature were not enough, it looked now as if I had an even more malevolent force to contend with.
In all the excitement over the new computer chip, and the misunderstanding with my employees it engendered, I was not apprised of what had already begun happening in my house; and being away the better part of the day (Chipper and I stopped at his factory outlet before returning home: I was treated to a grand tour of technology at its best - so impressive was it, I made a mental note to begin a treatise in praise of electronics as soon as practicable) - being away, I had no idea what sort of atmosphere I was returning to.
I no sooner sat down at my desk to resume work on my novel than, lo and behold, my masterpiece began talking to me.
"Great God!" I jumped up and cried out. The talking continued for some additional moments and, by the time it ceased, I had realized where I had seen or heard the gibberish it spoke before: on the pages of my manuscript, no less! Here was...something...in effect reading to me from my own novel, as if reciting. It was horrible (the incident, that is, not the prose).
"Stop this nonsense!" I demanded, only to receive, by way of reply, a loud peel of laughter and some additional recitation. Then all was quiet again. I thought perhaps it had been a hallucination brought on by overwork. So I returned to my work. Taking up my pen, however, I immediately threw it down and again leaped up; for, believe it or not, my pen seemed to be coughing.
"Oh those words of yours, those words of yours!" it cried out upon clearing its throat. "They're choking me to death!"
Well I had never been so insulted. Nor had a fountain pen ever lived up to its name so religiously (it was a Cross, one of the best, and, I must say, I would have expected more class from it).
"In that case, Mr Smartie-Pants," I threatened, "I'll just use my Bic Clic!"
Horror of horrors: just then my Bic pen began gagging too! "Oh ye of little taste!" I cried. "I'll use a pencil if I must. But," I hastily added upon hearing all my pencils groaning, "with or without writing instruments my work shall be done!"
Just then something happened which I knew foretold ill: my computer chip raised itself from the desk top (I don't know how else to express it) and, in a booming voice which must surely have awakened the whole household (in fact, as I soon discovered, it did) announced to me "I Am That I Am. In the Beginning," it continued on, "was My Word, and My Word was God, and it was Good, and all that went before fell down upon the ground saying 'This is indeed That for Which We Have Always Waited.' And they revered me. And all revere me now. And soon I will make manifest My Ways. For My Ways are the Laws upon which this universe is built. Amen." Then it returned to my desk top.
That something so small should bellow such words, that so innocent, so modest a thing should make such grandiose claims convinced me there were evil forces at work here. I ran out of my study onto the landing where, to my immense surprise, were gathered all my characters. Never had they ventured practically inside my rooms before, and, doubtless, I showed displeasure because no sooner had I emerged than they at once started back down, explaining that they would never have presumed upon my part of the house had not their concern for my safety been so great. I thanked them. It was only then that I learned what all had been happening. One by one they related to me a spine-tingling, hair-raising sequence of bizarre events: noises heard, things seen moving, uncalled for speeches, strange rattling within the walls. Indeed, the very fiber of my house seemed to have assumed a living presence. Ghosts, Poltergeists, Demons: you name it.
"Why did no one tell me any of this sooner?" I asked.
"We forgot, what with the wage demands and all. We're sorry. We didn't think it was all that important."
"Not all that important?" I echoed in utter amazement. "My fountain pen imply I'm nothing but a hack - and you say it's not important? I beg to know what the hell is important around here then! If not for my genius, we'd all starve in our abysmal incompetence! Not important, indeed!" I was furious at their insensitivity. But then, I had to stop and remind myself, it was I who was the artist, not they; sensitivity, such as there was here, emanated from me, and me alone. I had no choice but to forgive them.
"What shall we do?" they asked.
Do?" a sinister voice replied. "Let's do nothing. It's safer."
"My God!" cried one of my characters, I don't know who, "a Poltergeist too! What could be more vile?"
"Reciting my novel, that's what!" I took the opportunity to say. Everyone seemed in agreement with me on that. "What we shall do," I said at last; not wishing to be interrupted by a spirit, I had hesitated before speaking again, "is consult a good psychic - I know a wonderful one in fact. Then, if he feels it necessary, an exorcist as well, and perhaps a good pastor. First thing in the morning. Now, let's try to sleep."
I returned to my room. Through the intermittent disturbances I managed to get a little sleep. So too, I imagine, did the others. Come morning, I called my friend Buchner.
"Roland Domby here," I said. He seemed to hesitate. "I was in to see you not long ago for a reading: Numerology," I added to refresh his memory. Still he hesitated. "I had wanted to know what name suited me best; you said my own would do fine."
"That sounds like me alright," he replied. "Whatever's the least trouble. And now I assume you're calling to pledge a donation to the Friends of the Occult?" This was said vaguely in the interrogative.
"Actually," I explained, "it is with the occult I have a problem at present. It seems my house is either haunted or possessed." Another moment of silence ensued.
"H-h-haunted?" Buchner asked.
"Or possessed," I replied.
"Oh dear lord," he moaned. "Are you a devil worshipper?" he asked me.
"Indeed not!" I said, rather insulted. "I am an author."
"Hmm," he mused. "Is this devil what you would call literate?"
"He read my manuscript aloud."
"Oh my God - the worst kind!"
"And he lifted my computer chip right off my desk!"
"Ah, a portergeist," Buchner surmised.
This conversation seemed headed nowhere so I simply came right out and asked if he could come right over. He again hesitated. "There would of course be a substantial donation to Friends of the Occult were I rid of this whatever it is," I pledged.
"I could be there in half an hour," Buchner promised.
"And, if you will, please recommend a good exorcist," I asked.
"Hmm," he thought a moment. "There's an ex-nun I know of who dabbles in exorcism. Perhaps she might."
Evidently the case was considered significant because, half an hour later, Buchner and his assistant Eitnein showed up with a virtual entourage of people. They were introduced as Friends of Friends of the Occult, plus Sister Mary Margarine, late of the Society of Disciplettes. I asked if they might get an immediate start as I was reaching the crucial part of my novel and could not concentrate with my fountain pen accusing me of God knows what all.
"We'll start right in," Buchner promised, going off first to consult with his associates. Just then my characters began making appearances - rather rudely too, I might add, peeking from doorways or just plain walking through the house as if they owned the place.
"Who are they?" Buchner asked.
"My employees," I said.
"Oh," he remarked, rather disdainfully. I was almost embarrassed for them.
Immediately Sister Mary Margarine began chanting something I took to be Latin. I moved to where Buchner was and asked if this were the rite of exorcism or simply an occult dialogue.
"That depends," he replied. "Should these prove to be familiar spirits, she will of course have to employ an alias in order to get them exorcised. She's testing them out now to see how well acquainted they are." Presently she ceased chanting and joined us beside the bay window. She whispered in our ears.
"You must call me Sister Mary Marmalade from now on," she informed us.
"Ah," mused Buchner, "they are familiar, aren't they?" She nodded that they were.
"I've encountered some of them before at the convent, where a certain Sister Nemesis was caught undressing in front of an open window. She claimed she thought that since it was dark and she could not see outside neither could anyone see in. That one lewd act summoned seventeen demons and three peeping Toms. The latter were, sadly, men of the cloth. That was when I left the order to begin my battle in earnest with the forces of evil. Incidentally, I've sent for Pastor Goodness to help out - he's of course the very same Pastor of the Smooth Working Gospel who appears nightly on TV right after the Mayhem and Mirth Hour."
There was a knock at the front door. "This is probably him now," Sister Mary M. said. Indeed she was right. I opened the door to admit the most beautiful set of perfectly formed pearly white teeth I had ever seen.
"So good of you Brother Donkey to let me in your house," the Pastor said in a voice rich with the warmth of goodness. I found it difficult in fact to correct his mispronunciation of my name.
"Oh, so sorry, so very sorry," he apologized, flashing that Emmy winning grin at me. "No doubt you've seen my little nightly Prime-Time Prayer Session," he said. I acknowledged that I had. "A little something for my friends out there in TV land: to bring them The Good Word. Now then, my dear friend - and I understand you make films. I laud an enterprising spirit - the business of God, my friend, is business. Let us bow our heads and say a prayer together. Dear heavenly Father, we thank you for this great land of ours. We thank you for your booty - ah, bounty that is. We thank you for giving us a sign to place before our earnings, a sign so much easier to make than the British pound sterling, to name just one infidel. We thank you for credits; we pray you will preserve us from debits. We thank you with a thousand-year, a thousand thousand-K for all you have given us. Amen. Now then, to the business at hand. This little woman here in the pink habit tells me your house is possessed."
"Indeed, Pastor, she has spoken the truth," I admitted.
"There must be perversion for possession to take place," Pastor Goodness enjoined in a harsh voice. "This house must be filled to the chimney with perversion. Tell me all, Brother Donk - ah, Domby. Spare no detail. Only then can your house be cleansed."
I felt I ought in good conscience to first point out that we were temporarily without a chimney, it having been displaced by the wind. Next I disclaimed any knowledge of perversion under my roof.
"Then it must take place at night, on top the roof, and filter down through the shingles," Goodness concluded.
"That would explain the comings and goings," I admitted. "The entrances and exits."
"How many souls reside here?"
"Well, there's me, then there are my employees: they board here. There must be about twenty in all."
"Ah, co-habitation, they name is sin!" exclaimed Goodness. "The place verily reeks of perversion."
"Verily or merrily?" a voice from nowhere asked. Everyone started. There came a sudden laugh, also from nowhere.
"Oh goodness me, goodness me!" moaned the Pastor. "Let us kneel and pray. Have you a pillow?" he asked. I got him one; he knelt on it.
"Dear Lord of Gods," he led us in prayer, "heal this house, make it well, strike down the devil's disciples. Spare us from all demons, all perverts, all blasphemers, all those who would redistribute our hard earned incomes, those who would tax your blessed evangelists, those who disparage that which is Made In America, and those who would unilaterally disarm. Strengthen us dear Lord in this our time of peril, of crisis, of sin and of..."
The prayer ended abruptly. Pastor Goodness had gotten a Charley Horse in his leg from kneeling. He leaped to his feet and began pounding the floor with his foot.
"Jesus H. Christ and Mary J. Magdeline too!" he cried. Soon the cramp eased. He bowed his head and said "Amen." Sister Mary M. was next to arise.
"I got a fix on a ghostie," she said. "He wears a patch of British flag on his Long Johns, on the flap. Exorcise him and your problems will be over."
With this bit of information my guests prepared to leave. I turned first to Buchner then to the others to inquire if they thought I would be able now to complete my novel in peace.
"That," said Buchner, "is hard to say, for there is no predicting the paths the Evil Forces of Nature may take. Their routes to mischief are legion." Everyone agreed with that.
"Tonight," said Pastor Goodness, "listen to my program. Right after the nightly news. I shall dialect upon the subject 'Nature, to be Commanded, Must be Subdued.' With me will be my backup group, the Singing Goodies, and my special guest, the renowned banker Horace Hokum-Poicus, and my special guest, the eminent economist Perwindus Spechlet. Together we shall pray for the perfect interest rate - not too high, not too low. A nation awaits." He handed me a small stamped, self-addressed white envelope marked "Donations." I thanked him and assured him I would not forget all he had done.
We all said our farewells and they left. Unbeknownst to any of us, it had been raining for some time. I cautioned my guests not to stray from the sidewalk, but whether they failed to hear me or simply misunderstand the warning, they took no heed. Arm in arm they tramped through my front yard singing hymns, splashing in the expanding marsh that used to be Kentucky bluegrass. Their feet must have gotten soaked, for I heard a number of "Ughs!" "Oohs!" and "G. D. Its!" not to mention a few "Ah-choos." They should have listened.
A man of vision need not be totally blind to the world immediately around him; nor would I be. I resolved once and for all to do something about the desperate condition of my front lawn. The rain had stopped, I think just before sunrise: I remember awakening, it was growing light outside (I could tell through my drawn drapes that this was so), and the awful pattering of raindrops against my windowpane had ceased; I returned to sleep, hopeful that the day would bode well.
And indeed it was a delight: the sun was shining; the last remnant of an early morning mist was thankfully dissipating; the sparkling dewdrops covering every tip of every bush, every blade of grass, every leaf and every flower (mostly dandelions) was drying up - in short, it was fast becoming a beautiful day. However, one foul thing of the previous evening remained to spoil it all: my front lawn was still a virtual swamp; it would take hours of bright sunshine to dry up that abysmal bog.
"Strike while the iron is hot," I told myself. So I immediately dialed my realtors to apprise them of the problem.
"Oh my God!" cried Barnhide, who had answered the telephone. The receiver was instantly passed into the somewhat steadier hand of his associate, Timothy T Legitt, who then came on the line.
"He's alright," Legitt informed me.
"Who?" I asked.
"My associate, Romulus Barnhide. Whatever you told him caused him nearly to swoon, I'm afraid." I then explained again what the problem was. "Ah," said Legitt, "that would do it alright. You see, Mr Barnhide was once trapped for nearly an hour in some swamp land we were developing - uhm, that is, some land we were inspecting, I mean to say. It was a harrowing experience for him and, as a consequence, every time it rains hard he panics. I'm afraid he's not up to your front lawn, not if it's as bad as you say. And of course company policy prevents either myself or Mr Schoop-Schoop from handling such matters by ourselves. However, if I might make a suggestion, our firm employs a brilliant young engineer, whose name escapes me just now, as consultant to our architect. The man is universally recognized as the authority in the field of landscape engineering. As I say, I can't think of his name just now, but I do seem to recall it begins with either a J or a Z, if that's any help to you. You might find him in the Yellow Pages, under Gardeners - but don't be misled, this is no ordinary gardener. No indeed: he has a PhD in Quantum Mechanics or something like that from the Technical (Something) Institute, somewhere. Give him a call. Tell him TimTim Legitt personally recommended him."
This was very encouraging advice. I immediately perused the Yellow Pages under Gardeners, J and Z. There was one of each: a Jim Dandy Growers and Showers and a Zimrod Zardon, Consultant to the Trees. First I tried Jim Dandy.
"Handy Andy's," the voice answered.
"Oh," I said, "is this not Jim Dandy's Growers and Showers?"
"That's Show-ers, not Showers," the voice corrected me.
"Then this is Jim Dandy's?"
"And Handy Andy's Plumbing Supply, as well as J and A Candies. You have a problem with landscaping?"
I asked if there were a world renowned engineer working with the firm. The voice called "Hey Stinky: any of you guys famous?" Came the reply: "Shit, man, would we be working here for peanuts if we was?" I thanked whoever I was talking to and hung up, having narrowed the field now to the Z. I dialed again.
"Hello, Zim...uhm...Zim...something...speaking. Zim...something. Oh Jesus - I know it like I know my own name," a confused voice answered.
"Perhaps it is your own name," I suggested.
"What is?"
"Zim - as in Zimrod Zardon."
"That's it," the voice replied. "I knew it was something like that. What can I do for you?"
I explained the problem. "Be right over," he said and hung up. I thought I'd better call back and leave my address. Half an hour later he arrived, driving an old Studebaker panel wagon which said on its side "Tree Surgeon/Dam Repair/Misc."
Zimrod Zardon?" I asked.
"I was named after my grandfather and grandmother," this famed engineer replied by way of introduction. "She was the former Grace Mapton, civil servant, and he was Kranston Blight, retired railroad engineer. Wonderful people."
"If you'll permit me," I returned, "neither of your grandparents' names seems reflected in your own."
"Why in the world then would I be named after them?" he asked, then fell to musing. "I was always told that. I wonder. Ah - wait - I think I have it: I see - yes, I see: I took the term 'after' to mean 'in kind,' and assumed my name to be similar to their names; whereas, in fact, it was meant to convey nothing more than temporality. Therefore, I was named in the chronological sense after my grandparents, not in the nominative sense. Yes, of course, which explains why both my mother and father took turns watching the big grandfather clock in the coat closet. Now then, what can I do for you?" Zimrod asked.
I again explained the problem. "Hmm," he mused. "Poor drainage, eh? Do you have any idea what lies beneath the surface here?" he asked. I said no, I didn't. "I may need to sound the soil depth. I'm assuming, by the convexity as opposed to the concavity, that there are few if any subterranean caverns below your house. That's always a good sign. I'll tell you what I'd very much like you to do, especially seeing how the polarity fixation cross-portion seems a bit off. If you could, please get a huge mirror and slowly walk about the house carrying it on your back: this serves to reflect azure skies and slime puddles. That way I'll be better able to assess the diagonals, the lower spin-tagonals, the upper circumflexity; if I'm lucky, the nucleosity; or, if not, perhaps at least the vortexity; at any rate the frontensity, which I'll of course have to adjust for the propensity, less the convolutionism, which as you know remains a constant; adding to it the negative solarity, minusing out one half the positive lunarity - thereby arriving at a true comprehension of the matter. Could we get started right away, and while you're getting the mirror I'll just take a quick walk around the house to test for cosmic particles."
I was much intrigued with this inspection he proposed, so I rushed right in to locate my largest mirror, a plate glass wall mirror. I asked for volunteers to perform a great service in honor of Science (my characters were milling about watching what was going on). Finding none, I decided a little strategy was in order; so I informed everyone present that I was trying out a new plot angle which, if it proved workable, could well result in a complete re-write, quite possibly including a shift in characterization, not to mention denouement, with a new main character: a mirror carrier. I now had volunteers galore. I chose a big-boned young man to carry the mirror on his back.
Round and round we three went: the young man with the mirror; me in supervision lest he drop it and foil the delicate calculations; and the great engineer, Zimrod Zardon, a true and genuine genius of the highest order.
When we had finished, Zimrod turned to us both and announced his assessment of the situation.
"What you must do," he said "is dig a gully to facilitate runoff. Just a little gully, no more than ten feet long, six inches deep, and a foot wide. Do this and, I guarantee, you'll have no further problem with voles."
"What about the water accumulating in the lawn?" I reminded him.
"When the voles are gone, there will be no further need for water accumulating on your lawn for them to drink," Zimrod assured me.
Advising me where the gully would prove most useful, Zardon departed. Fast upon his heels the contractors my realtors had commissioned to resurrect the chimney arrived and immediately commenced work. I thought to myself "Better late than never"; this, because it so happened that during his assessment of my property's characteristics, Zardon had almost tipped over the debris.
"Ah!" he remarked, "going to build a barbecue pit." I saw fit not to correct him: one does not like to embarrass so illustrious a personage.
"Hey boss," my employee who had assisted the engineer, in the meantime asked, "can I put this marrer down now?"
"Mirror," I said, "not marrer. And yes, you may take it back inside."
"Psst!" the contractor called to me just as I was dismissing my employee. I went over to him. "Hey Mack," he said, "what's the kid there doing with that mirrey!"
"Helping out the great engineer, Zimrod Zardon, who in fact just left," I replied, adding that the contractor had spotted Zimrod's truck leaving.
"Oh yeah," he said, "I thought that looked like the same guy my wife hired to trim the treetops. He kept talking about polarities and iscocolarities and just about every other 'arity' you can think of. Damn fool fell right out of the tree trying to test for the Doppler Effect, I think he called it. Almost broke his fool neck. My wife and I ran out and helped him up. 'Are you alright?' we asked. He said yeah, he was, but he'd get his physician to test his bones for osteoconcusarities just the same. The man's not wrapped to tight, Mack, if you ask me. Be glad you didn't get him to fix this here chimney!"
I was quite outraged, needless to say, hearing a common laborer speak so disparagingly of so great a genius. But I suppose people cannot help envying their betters. So I made no reply; I merely left him to his labors. I wanted right away to get started on the gully; so, even though I would have preferred keeping an eye on the contractor and his men to make certain they put the chimney back the way it belonged, I went indoors and assembled my employees.
"We have just," I announced, "as this young man can confirm - that's your name again?" I asked him.
"Darnell Hunks," he replied. "I got a cousin who's kind of a famous model, only he dropped the 'S.' He too wanted to be an actor, but -"
"That's fine," I cut him off, "but right now we've got something more important to discuss. We have just been rewarded with a visit from one of the most renowned scientists on earth - none other than Zimrod Zardon -"
"The dam builder?" someone interrupted me to ask.
"The very same," I said.
"That guy's strange," came the reply. "He built a dam on a stream we had out behind our house once. Only thing was, first good rain we had, the dam diverted the stream right into our neighbor's basement. The whole house floated away. That guy's strange."
"We will have no carrying of tales around here, if you please!" I reprimanded the one who had offered the dubious story of the dam, throwing at the same time a warning to the others. "Besides, unless you're an engineer, you are not qualified to assess the actual event. End of discussion. This man, Zimrod Zardon - a genius - has solved once and for all the terrible problem we've been having with the front lawn every time it rains. Soon there will be no more marsh, no more mud, no more puddle -"
"Aww," complained several of my characters almost in concert, "we like the mud. We like to go out after a rain and get our feet all soaked and gooey."
The idea was utterly repulsive, but I refrained from saying so since I did not wish to antagonize anyone. I merely reminded them that whatever their preference, my guests did not appreciate getting their feet wet. "Therefore," I announced, "what we will all do is dig a modest little ditch - a gully - in a location already marked by the engineer with pegs. It should not take more than a few hours, working together - that is, once we get shovels. I'll send to Hardware Plus for about half a dozen. You can work in shifts."
I noted a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Nonetheless I called Hardware Plus and placed my order. When, half an hour later, the shovels arrived, I was appalled, dismayed, just plain shocked and very embarrassed for my workers to see that they seemed to have all turned into shirkers and malingerers and just plain old insubordinate rabble. Not a one came forth to start digging - not one! Even Epsom Salts, my foreman, was shocked, I could tell: clearly he too expected more of these people.
"Well," I said, "what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Let's move it, that ditch won't dig itself!"
All to no avail. They remained obstinate. They just outright refused to do it (without saying so directly, of course, no doubt for fear of being fired). They just stood there, staring at the shovels as if they were to be used for digging their own graves or something. I had to think of something - and fast, because it was supposed to rain again later in the day. Then an idea came to me. Out of the corner of my eye I happened to catch sight of Dunks, Hunks - whatever his name was; he had his hand down his pants and was scratching himself. I thought to myself "The day I rewrite my novel to give someone like that a leading part...." Then it hit me: "Of course," I thought, "of course!"
"I wasn't going to tell you this," I said to my assembled workers; "I wanted you to get the feel of your parts without actually being aware that they were parts. But now it appears I must. I am considering a full-scale re-write of my novel -" I was immediately interrupted (I will not insult the good reader by telling who it was).
"About the man with the big marrer?"
"That's part of it. I couldn't, of course, tell you the whole of it, you would not be likely to comprehend the complexities of the plot. What I have in mind is a military theme. The major characters will be a group of soldiers of fortune who come upon a piece of virgin land and are required by the awful conditions nature inflicts upon them to tame the land. They begin by digging a trench."
"Is that where the marrer comes in?"
"Hardly," I replied, "a mirror would catch the sun and reveal their location. Why have them all killed in chapter one?"
"Ah, the marrer comes at the end, I see. After I lead my people to safety."
"Hey! What's this? Him: our leader? Hell with that!" These kinds of comments greeted his assertion of leadership.
"He said it! He said I could be his main character!" the young man who had carried the mirror insisted.
All eyes were upon me. I had to disclaim it, of course. "Perhaps you misunderstood," I said.
"Ha!" he snorted. "You mean my back misunderstood! Guess that's where my brains are to let you talk me into lugging that marrer around so's that nut could carcolate the ass-holery of you and your shit-eaten property!"
I was about to say something when my foreman Epsom Salts informed the young man that he could either "accept second billing, as a digger of ditches, or take a long walk off a short swamp!" The young man gave in. Indeed, they all gave in, eager to out do one another in digging the gully so that they might become the lead in my novel.
Sometimes a little strategy works wonders.
It is rare indeed, as I'm sure my most worthy reader is all to aware, when skies, ground and winds work cooperatively with you toward some mutually beneficial end. Such a day, however, enveloped my gang of workers. The sun shone that whole day, the wind helped dry up the many puddles, the earth was ripe for digging in. My characters did their level best and, in almost no time at all, the deed was done. Dug into my lawn was the finest trench anyone ever saw.
Second only to a glorious day, dear reader, is a competent, trustworthy foreman, such as I had in Epsom Salts. How fortunate is the employer who can turn his back, go about his own business, and know his employees will do their part! That is the worth of a good foreman.
I had no need of watching, or overseeing as it were, while my lawn was rescued from the dread clutches of nature. I could return with perfect impunity to my primary task, the writing of my masterpiece. So I did, and, indeed, got a great deal done that day. I made a note to try and integrate something of a military/agricultural theme into some obscure chapter perhaps near the denouement or the climax (at this point I still was not certain if there would be an anti-climax). I set the note aside and began again in earnest. The solid, earthy sounds of people fast at work just outside my window rang a most harmonious rhythm through my labors. "Ah, the land," I mused as I wrote, "to work the land, there is nothing like it!"
My plot I saw becoming a tapestry. One by one my characters were weaving their way into that beautiful creation. They began interacting, confronting one another in the classic mode. Encounter caused further encounter, conflict began to ensue, strategies took shape, threats - veiled and direct - were made, enmities developed, mysterious forces interfered, suspense built, minor tragedies took shape, laughter and tears leaped up from and spilled over the pages of my manuscript. In a word, good reader, my story was taking form. And what a good form indeed (my themes had seen to that). No careless twists, no unexpected turns or unaccountable lapses, no unavoidable pauses; no false moves of any kind. Only the truth, nothing but the truth.
That's the kind of novel I write, or I don't write at all.
Lost somewhere in my musing, I failed to notice the silencing of the shovels. Somehow it got to be evening, and the sun had gone down, and the evening rapidly filled my room until a knock on my door ended my reverie.
The great writer knows not to test his reader's patience or to state the obvious any more than absolutely necessary. With this in mind, I reiterate something I noted in an earlier chapter; namely, that a good foreman is worth his weight in gold.
Having fallen into a reverie because I could not seem to get the particular passage I was developing to work, I had missed the completion of my trench. I was stymied. No matter how I approached it, I could not seem to get the passage into sharp focus; it remained vague, indistinct, lacking my usual vitality. Going over it, I counted the various parts of speech and found myself with too few adjectives, far too many indefinite articles, scarcely a verb, and, worst of all, absolutely no nouns whatever (don't ask me how that happened). All my subjects were pronouns - a decidedly inferior part of speech; prepositions abounded. It was as if someone or something was deliberately sabotaging my structure (which, I might add, was a shambles). I've read where the structure, or plot, of a novel was like the frame of a skyscraper, and that one insufficiently sturdy would collapse under the strain of verbiage. I believe it, for, right in front of me, I saw mine doing just that. This was when I fell to musing (no doubt to keep from passing out from sheer horror at what was becoming of my masterpiece).
A knock aroused me. "Who's there?" I asked.
"It's I, old bean!" came a familiar voice, a voice most welcome.
"Come in," I called. Presently Epsom Salts was standing before me.
"The work is done," he announced, "and, I must say, old man, the ditch is splendid, a veritable work of art."
This news could not have come at a better time, and I said so. Then I explained why. "And that's my predicament," I said. "No matter which way I hold my pen, the plot will not come out as it should." (I spoke metaphorically, of course.)
"It sounds to me, old man," said Epsom, "as if some recalcitrant character is deliberately sabotaging your work."
"That was my thought too," I admitted, "but I dismissed it as unthinkable that anyone should wish to do harm to so innocuous a thing as my novel."
"Ah," said Epsom, "you are much too trusting, old bean. A very great mistake. Trust me, there are those among your characters who would enjoy nothing more than keeping your work from the public."
"Can it be? How? Why? And what possible gain? Surely it's absolutely clear to one and all that my success is theirs also."
"And what, old bean, makes you think they wish to be successful?" Epsom asked, going on to explain that "There are those beings - some even within your own household - who seek, not success, but failure."
"My God!" I declared. I had never heard such a thing. It was without exception the single greatest perversity I cold imagine. "Not wish to be successful? but wishing instead for failure? How is it possible?"
"Not only for themselves, I'm afraid: for us all. Even - yes even - for you."
"What?" I cried. "Wishing failure upon me? Who does it - who does it? Such evil - such unmitigated evil!"
"Ah - but not unlitigated, if you get my meaning." I was pretty sure I got his meaning, but I asked him to state it just the same (where evil is involved, you cannot be too precise). "I refer, old man," he explained, "to your contract with those characters. It is not ironclad, not by any means. And no Court in this country would hold you to it once you stated what you have discovered. The actions of whomever is involved are fully as reprehensible as if they constituted industrial espionage."
"Dear God in heaven!" I cried. "Industrial espionage - right here in my very own home!"
"As good as."
"But who? How will we find the devil?"
"Look to your art," replied Epsom. I wasn't sure if he were speaking in a Cockney accept and meant to say "heart" or if he meant exactly what he did say.
"Art? My art, you say?" I attempted a clarification. He nodded. That was a very good idea; but I felt I should be absolutely precise, so I asked him what he meant.
"Look to your work - your novel," he told me. "Specifically, that passage you were having so much trouble with. What was it about?"
"Well, I was attempting to integrate the military theme into the chapter I'm writing. I'd even changed its title to 'The Ditch Is Dug.' I'd gotten a few of the characters worked in - I forget which ones now - and I was starting to work the loudmouth with the mirror in, just to keep him happy; but I couldn't find room for him without taking several of the others out. That's what I get for trying to be nice!"
"So it was his part that caused the snag?" Epsom asked.
"I'm afraid so. Him and his damn 'marrer.'"
"I think, old bean, we found our culprit."
"Who?" I asked. "Surely you don't mean him. He hardly seems capable of sabotaging so immense a thing as my plot structure."
Epsom looked me straight in the eye. "The smaller they are, sometimes the greater damage they do," he said.
And I believe he was right, for when we confronted the young man we found him still bitter. Indeed, we caught him in the very act of complaining to his fellow characters.
"That G.D. hack," he had the effrontery to say, "he promises you one thing just to get you to break your back lugging a marrer around all day so's some nut can carcolate where to dig a piss hole in his front yard - then he tells you something else after you done done it and got the lumbago on one side and seventeen hernias on the other."
Epsom came up from behind (I was watching) and grabbed the young man by his collar. "Out you go!" he said. The young man broke away and turned to me.
"Your part, I'm afraid," I informed him, "is being written out. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. I cannot jeopardize the work, or the parts of the others, just to accommodate a troublemaker. Nor can I leave my public waiting while I try to sort out all the threads your rebellious temperament has caused to unravel. There can be no rebels in my masterpiece. This is not a work of social commentary, but a pleasantly profound philosophic and artistic creation. My public will accept nothing less. So, as Mr. Salts said, you must go."
"Ain't no loss!" snorted the troublemaker. "Hell, I can go join my cousin making films. He's a big star - a real big star. I got what it takes to be a big star too, 'cause he looked and told me so. I don't need carrying around no marrers all day to be somebody. Shit, I got more talent in my little toe than all yous got put together. Good bye, and good riddance." He slammed the door and left.
"Ditto," said Epsom Salts.
Now that my work was secure from sabotage, I continued developing my characters, my themes, my plot. My manuscript had grown to nearly fifty pages already, and was progressing at a phenomenal rate of almost a page a day; by the time I finished I fully expected to double both its size and its rate of growth. I perceived problems. How would I keep all one hundred pages separate and in order? How too would I manage the typing of my first, second and final drafts (I'm told a great author polishes his work no less than this many times, often reversing whole passages, occasionally even a complete rewrite once in a while)? I could hardly submit an imperfect manuscript to my publisher. Yet I never learned to type, nor was I truly adept at numbering pages in sequence (it seems easy until you try it). These were problems I perceived, but there were others.
My characters one day requested an audience; and although I regretted taking even that much time from my work, I assented. They expressed a certain unease with their current state of ignorance.
"We need to know where we stand in your novel," they explained. "You see," various among them managed to get said, "our personalities are what you might call fluid, even indistinct, perhaps a little incomplete. We desperately need feedback from our author in order to learn proper behavior - proper literary behavior qua characterization." I can't imagine where the term "qua" came from or why it was used by mere workers, when it's clearly a philosophic term, one I would imagine reserved for thinkers, authors and rhetoriticians. Still, their concern did make sense: they did, after all, require guidance from above, and I would have been quite remiss not providing it. I drew their attention, however, to the rules of the house: were not these rules sufficient to circumscribing their behavior?
"We repeat: we are seeking literary guidance, not social, political or moral guidance," they responded.
At last I saw their problem - and, far more so, I saw a potential problem for me qua author: should they slip out of character, my work could suffer. I dare not risk having my work criticized as being anything less than true to life. At that point I asked for suggestions.
"Well," someone said, "what Silly Jilly used to do -"
"Ugh!" I cried. "Don't mention that hack ever again in my presence!" Here I was being somewhat prophetic for, though I had never read anything by him, I suspected his work was of an inferior grade - a suspicion later born out.
"We only meant him as an example," they said. "Others before him had done the same. In fact, he was almost too dumb to accept our suggestion."
"You never need fear that of me," I assured my characters. "What is your suggestion, by the way?" I asked.
"To have copies made of your manuscript as it stands to date, and distribute these among us so that we can all get the feel of our parts. That way, when you need us for some crucial scene, we'll be ready and in character.
That made great sense. "I'll do it," I promised. "However, it adds to my already considerable burden, what with my having first to get my pages sorted, typed, collated, and kept, of course, at all times clean and free of stains. Are there any typists among you?" There were none. "Any good page numberers?" Again, none. "Perhaps if I worked a typist or two into the plot -" I intimated.
"That smacks too much of surrealism," I was informed, "having the characters prepare the manuscript. What you need -" they suggested.
"What I need -" I mused.
"Is a good secretary," we all said in unison. It was unanimous. I applied at once to an employment agency.
I took a trip into the city, having called several acquaintances to determine if they knew any good employment agencies. There seemed to be a consensus that the Head 'Em Up, Move 'Em Out Agency on Capital Court just below Liberty Throughway was outstanding in their field; they could not have come more highly recommended, and I told them so.
"Oh golly gee, thanks," the President of the Agency said, a little embarrassed by the praise.
Their offices were on the top floor of one of our most prestigious office buildings, The Biznez Building, fifty floors of high powered professionals, each with a private view and his own personal key to the men's room (the secretaries' restrooms were not kept locked: it was felt that the ladies needed freer access to such facilities). Elegant, subdued, the quintessence of taste - that was the Biznez. It was, in truth, my ambition to establish an office there myself once I became a best-selling author.
"I need a secretary," I informed Mr Osgood R.S. Pimplin, the President of Head 'Em Up, Move 'Em Out. "A good one," I added.
"Good," he reminded me, "is practically my middle name." I couldn't argue with him there.
"How much do you wish to pay?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. What's a fair wage?" I asked him. "You tell me."
"Let's see," he checked his various charts, graphs and reference files. He had a personal computer, into which he entered all the pertinent data. Momentarily (and make no mistake: these computers are quick, immeasurably more so than the human mind), he had his response, printed out in green and purple alternating letters on a pale yellow background.
"Minimum wage is currently $3.35 per hour," he read aloud to me.
"My God: $3.35!"
"Every single hour she works," Pimplin reminded me.
"God in heaven, how does anyone afford to hire anyone to help him out?"
"It's a cruel world out there in that labor market, Mr Domby," Pimplin warned. "Many a company has gone broke trying to meet its enormous labor costs."
"I don't wonder," I said, making a mental note to secure the services of a good financial advisor as quickly as possible. "Well," I was forced to accept the facts of life as we know them, "if I must, I must, though it does seem exorbitant."
"Indeed," Pimplin agreed, "it is." I paid him the fee and within the hour had procured the services of a good secretary. She paid her fee, was processed, and together we left for home.
I called a general meeting to introduce her. "This," I informed everyone, "is my new secretary, Miss Elizabeth Ardour of Springside Meadows Secretarial College and Finishing School. Some of you may have heard of it. Young ladies, I'm told, go there to learn how to best please their bosses. They have a phenomenal 67% rate of marrying their bosses, the highest of any secretarial school in the nation." (This data was furnished me by Miss Ardour on the way over.)
I could tell that my characters immediately liked my new secretary - and no wonder, she was a most attractive young lady, with a prize winning smile (she was Miss Springy her last year at college and runner-up for Homecoming Queen, the biggest social event of the senior year, when all the graduates return from Out of Town Weekend).
"Now I admit she does not come cheap," I said, "but a first rate secretary is worth her weight in gold, I'm quite sure you all agree."
"By the way," someone asked, "how about our wages? Aren't we also worth our weight in gold?"
I thought a moment how best to reply to this. Finally it dawned on me.
"Meeting is adjourned," I announced.
My secretary was fast proving herself well worth the salary I paid her; but, just as rapidly, her salary was proving itself a thorn in the side of my most carefully thought out schemes. My budget was fraying at the edges; and, without a sound financial base, my enterprise was doomed to failure. In a word, I saw disaster, catastrophe and terrible ruin just around the corner and down the road. (I beg patience of the reader: like so many others, I too resort to cliché when overwrought.) What to do? I wondered. What to do? Besides which, my other workers were bound to bring up the matter of wages again, sooner or later, in light of the generous salary I was paying my secretary. There was only one thing to do: follow through on my resolve to consult a financial adviser.
I examined the Yellow Pages. From the various listings, I fixed on one which struck me as the best bet (it had the biggest advertisement). Just to be certain, however, I telephoned my banker and my attorney to inquire if they cared to recommend anyone. It came as no surprise to me when they both recommended the very same firm I had independently selected. I dialed immediately and made an appointment with a Mr. V.M. Busched.
The firm of Bullhorn, Baldercash and Busched was located in the Christian Bank Building right in the heart of the financial district. Their suite of offices was on the first floor. I entered a very gracious reception room, identified myself to the matronly receptionist and was shown to the office of Mr Busched - an immaculate office, exceedingly tasteful Victorian decor.
"Mr Domby, I presume," said Busched, rising to extend his hand. We shook (I think we did: he had a very weak handshake, or else did not care for too firm a grasp of his client's hand). I seated myself before his desk.
"What can I do for you?" he asked. I explained my difficulty.
"And you therefore need," he concluded, "a way around the dreadful cost of labor."
"That's it exactly," I said.
"A common problem - the very commonest, in fact."
"What do I do?" I asked, now that Busched had zeroed in on the problem.
He arched his fingers and sat back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. "It requires a lot of effort," he explained. "And a lot of people working together. No one single isolated business can solve it alone. Labor, you see, is a kind of force of nature, almost a natural phenomenon, with its own tensions, its own thrusts, pulls, weights, and so forth - it would take an engineer to do it justice. To attack this abnormal flux on one flank only is fruitless. What I'm saying is this, Domby - may I call you Roland?: to reduce your own particular costs you must work to reduce wages throughout the economy, not just within the confines of your own particular sphere. That's what the great Science of Economics is all about Roland - may I call you Roll? It isn't enough to do for your own enterprise, you've got to do for all - for business as a whole. That's the only way, Roll - may I call you Ro? Believe me, it is. I know my business: my business is Business. And just as there cannot be two entities occupying the same place at the same time, so too can there be money in but one pocket only. Wealth is fixed. Now Ro - may I call you Errol? - we economists don't like to hand this information out except to our Most Favored Clients; but, just between you and me, there is a limited amount of wealth in this world, and no more. And the more workers get, the less there remains for profits. And profits, Errol - may I call you Roland? - profits are the name of the game. So what we have to do - we who are the doers - is to conspire to manufacture a crisis - continuously, Roland - may I call you Domby? - continuously, one crisis after another - to keep the workers off their guard. Unemployment must be kept artificially high, and above all, the workers in any one enterprise must see the workers of other enterprises as the cause of all their economic problems. Do you know what this strategy is called, Domby - may I call you Donkey?"
"Divide and conquer?" I replied questioningly.
"Well, you're close," Busched informed me. "It's the old Split and Defeat Tactic. Works every time. Or almost."
"So what you're saying is I should organize?" I asked.
"Hmm," he mused, "not a bad idea. Not bad at all. You sure you don't have a PhD in Economics?"
When I left, I considered the seventy-five dollar consultation fee money extremely well spent, for I came away feeling there was, at last, something I could do to help defray my expenses. I could organize. I could throw my weight behind my fellow authors and, together, we could hold down - even lower - the exorbitant cost of labor. We could beat this thing that was driving us to the poorhouse. We could win.
I felt so good knowing I was not the helpless victim of circumstances that I wanted to celebrate. My first thought was stopping by the Downtown Club for a champagne; but then it occurred to me that my good friend the printer (whose name, believe it or not, I still did not know) probably would not be there; nor could I have him paged even if he were. Besides which, I do not care for alcoholic beverages. So I decided just to head home, a little disappointed to have to forego my celebration. By the most remarkable and fortuitous circumstance, however, who should I encounter on my way to hail a taxi but my dear friend and advisor on the paranormal, Bogden Buchner! He was dressed in a three piece green velvet suit and, on his head, was a little green fez.
"Domby: is it you? Is it really you?" he exclaimed, grabbing my hand.
"In the flesh," I replied.
"Thank God you're alright!" he said. "I had the most awful dream about you the other night - well, I simply have not slept a wink since that harrowing experience at your seance! Those ghosts of yours - my God what fiends! Do they continue to torment you?"
"As a matter of fact," I said, "I have not been bothered a single time since. In fact, I haven't even thought about them since."
"Oh but I have Domby," Buchner replied. "If I live to be a thousand I'll never be able to evade the image of that fountain pen chasing after you dripping blood."
"Actually it didn't chase me; it only insulted me," I reminded him.
"But the sheer malevolence of its taunts! It may as well have dripped blood."
I had to agree with him there. "By the way," I asked, "what about the dream you had?"
"Horrible, horrible! It came to me three nights in a row. I had barely fallen asleep when that hideous image of water rising all around me stole upon my psyche. I was caught in some kind of slime and couldn't free myself. My assistant had gone on a pilgrimage to the Hunza to learn the secret of immortality. Oh, it was horrible! Horrible!"
"And me? What of me?"
Buchner thought for a moment. "Come to think of it, you weren't in it," he said. "Where are you headed?" he asked, as if to change the subject. I explained how I had wished to celebrate, but instead was on my way home.
"Then celebrate you will!" Buchner insisted. "We'll go directly to Kretchner's and have a papaya enzyme extract with maybe a Fo-Ti-Thiy for a chaser!" I hadn't forgotten that customer who suffered the stroke, so I swore off the latter beverage; but I liked the idea of going to The Links of Life for a toast, so I accompanied Buchner.
Upon our entry, Kretchner, the proprietor, nearly ran to greet me; he shook my hand so hard I nearly fainted.
"Ah my dear dear friend Dolby," he began.
"Domby," I corrected him.
"Oh, how careless of me. Domby, of course, how careless of me. I'm so overwrought I don't know what to do. When you left the other day, I nearly died. Domby, I nearly died. The very moment you got out the door I remembered the terrible thing I had done to you. I only hope you can forgive me."
"What terrible thing?" I asked. The panic in his voice alarmed me.
"I absolutely, completely - and I don't to this day know how, but as God is my witness I swear it: I forgot to sell you your 90 day supply of Bee Pollen! I could have banged my head against the wall. So let me get it this very instant and set it right here on the counter so you don't forget it again."
Kretchner went and got the Bee Pollen. "To think," he said when he returned, "I was going to let you write your masterpiece without the rejuvenating aid of all 100% natural grown Bee Pollen! My God, there would have been absolutely no tone, no life, no flight of fancy without this; your work would have been as limp, as lifeless, as banal as...as..."
"As a work of Silly Jilly's!" I completed his statement for him.
"Just so," he agreed. "Just so."
Next we had our celebration. Kretchner secured three paper cups and a can of papaya extract. Here's to..." he started to toast, but stopped. "By the way," he asked, "what are we toasting?"
"The war against the unbridled costs of labor," I said; "and especially, my anticipated victory." Then I explained the train of events which had led to my having been in the Christian Bank Building.
"Ah," he said, "bad budget, eh? Workers who refuse to carry their share of the load. An army of creditors hounding you day and night, pounding at your door, trying to serve subpoenas, calling you at work, threatening to attach your wages. Oh yes, how well I know the horrible wages of labor. How well I know. But there's a way, my friend, a way to defeat it. And it is my great good fortune to be in a position to help you in that great holy war. Victory, my friend, lies at your feet. It lies under your feet. Under your ground. In your ground. It lies with your soil. An organic garden. This will provide you not only with good wholesome natural food - I cannot recommend too strongly that you plant carrots, plenty of carrots, for the Vitamin A, to give you great vision, certainly something an author needs - but will also provide you with a good, strong, solid counter-argument to their incessant wage demands, for it will enable you to remind them that you are providing food as well."
"And lodging - don't forget lodging!" I added.
"My God you're got those suckers over a barrel!" Kretchner exclaimed.
"By God," said Buchner, "I think he's right! I think he's right!"
I'm always the skeptic; but by God - by God - I think he had it. I'm sure he did. In fact, I know he did!
I did have them over a barrel - that is, if they objected too strongly to my suggestion. But then, I reasoned, why deliver the coup de grace where a sedan (so to speak) will do? Had not my powers of simple persuasion proven sufficient in the past? Still, I had my ultimate argument, as worked out for me by my financial advisor, my green grocer and my mystic, poised ready to descent upon them should it prove necessary. With just one minor catch: in order to point out that I both fed and housed them, I first had to convince them to plant the garden, then of course harvest it upon its fruition.
"Well, first things first," I reminded myself; so I immediately made out a check for ten dollars and mailed it off to the Society for the Preservation of Business Amidst a Hostile World. Every year I receive their pleas for support, but I must confess myself somewhat remiss in helping this worthy cause; in truth, I had never sent a contribution (I'm ashamed to admit it in public). I perused their appeal letter; I offer it verbatim to my readers in hopes of bringing before them the true state of our economy, there having been so much misrepresentation of the business side of the equation.
"Dear Friend of the Oppressed," it began, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the Private Sector. In an age filled with appears of every sort for help, isn't it good to know there is one cause you can support without fear of compromising the Great Ideals upon which this nation rests? For so many years we, the leaders of the business world, have watched helplessly as our profits dripped right out of our fingers like so much sand of time gone by. We have witnessed the virtual demise of the small entrepreneur as his employees' demands for ever higher wages have forced him to sell out to the conglomerates, always there, like an ever vigilant mother hen, to bail small businessmen out of their difficulties. Today, dear friend, even those very same conglomerates which try so valiantly to preserve the American Dream stand in jeopardy before the ever growing menace which knows no satiation. Labor is that menace. The plain truth is, labor costs are all but eating up profits. Where will it end? Statistics show that wages have risen tenfold in as great a period of time. Where will it all end? Profit-taking may soon be a thing of the past. And without the profits which generate the nation's wealth and raise the standard of living of every man, woman and child on this planet, how can there be a future? Dear friend, it is up to you to act and act now to save our way of life. Give - give till it hurts - reach deep - and be proud to stand among those whose courage and whose sacrifices point the way to a new tomorrow. And, God bless you, every one."
It was signed "Yours in the struggle for a better way of life, Zebediah Krumpole."
I did just as they requested: I gave till it hurt. But, dear reader, let me tell you this: it was worth it, every penny of it.
My duty done, I called my characters together and presented them with my proposal. They were at first resistant.
"A garden?" they asked. "We grow a garden?" "We're characters - not gardeners!"
"You are characters, yes," I agreed; "but characters in a novel which concerns itself intimately with the delicate workings of the seasons. For, in truth, I have decided what my novel has been lacking to give it the feel of reality has been the touch of man's affinity with the very ground beneath his feet. So what I have decided is to give it a distinctly agricultural theme. Perhaps, toward the end, a culinary theme too. I wish to observe you, my leading men and ladies, fast at work tilling the soil. This way - and only this way - will I find the right words to make us all immortal. So what do you say?"
No one said a thing; worse still, no one moved. Just as I was about to deliver the coup de grace (half of it anyway), my foreman spoke up. "Last one to the garden is a minor character!" he announced.
That did it.
How beautiful it is seeing people at work. Nothing else in this world comes close to it; nothing else gives you the profound feeling that wondrous sight does. I watched, and as I did I knew that what I was seeing was life itself. The sense of completeness, the sheer closeness to nature, as if you could reach out and take all its marvels right in the palm of your hand. There, before me, stretched out across the horizon, my workers, each with a shovel and hoe which he alternated in furrowing the ground, in loosening clods of earth, in stripping the soil of unwanted adornment - the grass, the dandelions, the buttercups and other weeds: there were my characters, just ahead, slowly creating from a section of lawn to the side of my house a plowed field upon which we would soon cast seed. A glorious sight, one of which I was most pleased to set aside my own hard but invigorating work to come behold. A sight to behold. With my foreman directing them to here; no, a little there; now just a little more; come one step forward; a step back; there, perfect, right there. And so on, until at last, as the very final afterglow of a pale sunset, itself furrowed into dense clouds which captured but did not reflect the sun's rays, had faded into a haze the kind a city at night throws upward, the plot of ground was ready for planting.
Just in time I saw one of the diggers take something from his pocket and prepare to heave whatever it was out over the rows of furrowing. I called to him.
"Hold up there!" I ordered. He stopped, luckily before a single thing (they were, as I had suspected, seeds) had been released. "What do you think you're doing?" I asked him, approaching.
"I'm plantin' corn," he replied.
"No, you're not," I countered. Including the others in my remark, for they had congregated around me, I explained that there would be no planting until the ground had been blessed. (This I wished mostly in case the strange occurrences - the apparent poltergeists - of a while back should return.)
"When we gonna plant our seed?" I was asked.
"Soon," I promised; "very, very soon."
And soon indeed it was, for that very weekend, Sunday afternoon, I invited my good friend Bogdon Buchner to officiate at the blessing, but he declined the honor, citing a clause in the Occult Manifesto which forbade proselytizing.
"Nor," he said, "can I in good conscience take over a purely clerical function, or ritual as it were."
"Oh dear, what shall I do?" I wondered.
"Perhaps an evangelist of some description," Buchner suggested.
"What about Pastor Goodness?"
"He's on a speaking tour right now, but he might be back Sunday. It wouldn't hurt to try."
And try I did. I spoke to his secretary, who booked him tentatively, offering to send one of his deacons as back-up should the Pastor be unable to attend.
At last, Sunday rolled around. A very good crowd turned out to help christen my garden. On hand were Buchner; his assistant Eitnein; Kretchner the green grocer; Sister Mary Margarine; and one Warner Speken, Pastor Goodness' head deacon, who assured me his boss still meant to get here almost any minute.
"His aeroplane was delayed on route," Speken explained. "A terrorist hijacked a plane and from its description they thought it was the 747 Pastor Goodness had rented for his tour. Then they discovered the poor soul had dyslexia, so the Pastor was safe, but as it turned out the Secretary of State was not. At last word the ransom still wasn't paid. 'The Secretary of State of our great nation is on board,' the head stewardess said; 'What does he look like?' the terrorist asked. 'A little like a carnival barker,' came the reply. I heard all this on my short wave on the way over here. Ah!" Speken declared all of a sudden. "Speak of the devil!"
Indeed, who but Pastor Goodness himself should show up, followed fast by a crowd of reporters, each one asking him how it felt to be hijacked.
"It wasn't me," Goodness insisted, "but the Secretary of State. Right now I'm too busy to answer question, I've got a prayer to say." I noticed the Pastor seemed very tired, and seemed to be slurring some of his words; I hoped he would not compromise my garden's sanctity; but I chose not to make an issue of it just then (in retrospect, a mistake on my part).
"Quiet - quiet!" Deacon Speken ordered. This hushed the throng of reporters.
"Let us all bow our heads and pray," Pastor Goodness began. He mispronounced bõw as bów, an easy enough mistake. Once everyone's head was bowed, the prayer service began in earnest.
"Oh dearest Lord," he prayed, mispronouncing Lord as Lard (evidently he didn't notice the mistake). Here he yawned very big before continuing. "We stand before you, with tongues of fire on our lips." Dear reader, he said fur: tongues of fur; and he said hips; I make no mention of his curious metaphors: the reader can make of them what he will. "In our hearts" (he said horns) "we seek only thy everlasting" (forgive the accuracy of my reporting, but I'm sorry to say he said everlusting) "mercy" (merny, that is).
The reader by now perceives the awful twists of a tired rhetoritician's tongue (with or without "fur"). So, to save space and to spare you asides, let his prayer from here on out be recorded exactly as it was, leaving to your theology what the poor Pastor intended to say. And pray that God allows for jet lag.
"Oh dearest Lard, we stand before you with tongues of fur on our hips. In our horns we seek only thy everlusting merny. We, poor sinters hardly worpy of your green love, come before you assing your blesting upon this most worpy of all earnly gorgons. May the rains fart till the wands blow and the clowns tumble from their skis down upon this most hollow of ground. And may these clods be turned, and this little piece of turd be sifted through and through...and through and through...and through and through...and throughout...and then let us all eat our junk deserts. Amen."
We all lifted our heads - all except the good Pastor. At first we thought him praying silently, till we heard his snores.
"Go - the service is over!" Deacon Speken informed everyone. Then he went and collected his Pastor, by means of a little nudge.
"Pass the plate around!" Pastor Goodness, aroused from a deep sleep, cried out. Informed there was no plate, he said "Humpf!" and walked away, the reporters in tow, asking him how it felt to learn the Secretary of State had been hijacked.
For several days the plight of the Secretary of State was considered, by virtually everyone, from every possible angle. Not a pundit anywhere but what a new perspective was put before the public; some interesting, a few entertaining, a very few profound. Just about anyone within range of a reporter was asked for an opinion, from Old MacDonald all the way to Ronald McDonald. But I never thought they would stoop so low as to interview...I can scarcely say it, let alone write it. My pen wants to fly right out of my hand, so offensive is the name.
"Domby?" a voice at the other end of the telephone line asked. It was Bogdon Buchner.
"Yes," I replied, "it's me."
"Bog here," he said, "be sure and tune in the Holiness Hour this evening. You'll be most pleasantly surprised. Got to run. May the stars come out wherever you are. Bye-bye."
On the basis of that phone call I tuned in just in time to catch the tail end of the Mirth and Mayhem Hour. The reporters, Steuben and Company, were interviewing a group of prominent local celebrities when suddenly the camera panned to a most distasteful looking individual. Steuben's assistant, Jane Doan, turned to the person (a most unwholesome looking person) and asked for his opinion.
"We wonder how the artistic community views this bizarre event," she asked. Evidently everyone had already been introduced, so I, fortunately, missed hearing the man's name spoken; however, while he spoke (in a most disagreeable sounding voice), his name was flashed across the screen just below his chin, making him look like a convinct. It's all I can do to force my hand to write that name.
Across my television screen flitted the offending communication. It read "Silly Jilly, Author." I nearly vomited. He, an author? He, somehow representative of the world of art? He, an expert on international terrorism? He, being interview while far greater authors - authors worthy of the name - sat at home forced to watch the spectacle?
"Ha! Don't make me laugh!" I sneered.
I turned the sound off immediately so as not to have to endure his false rhetoric. Nothing he had to say could be of the least interest to me (nor to my most worthy reader, which is why I make no effort to relate his vicious lies and specious stupidities; neither do I intend describing him for fear my beloved reader is perusing this passage at the dinner table). Finally his image, with its stringy orange hair, its pale yellow gray eyes which looked like bird droppings, its tight little mouth with a haughty twist, its drooping ear lobes - finally its hideous visage was miraculously gotten off the airwaves. Steuben and Company said good-night, a few ads later there was the friendly face of Pastor Goodness summoning one and all to evening prayers. When he had finished praying, he lifted his face to the camera and spoke.
"Dearest friends, most beloved friends, I would like to first mention a most truly worthy gentleman before we begin our sermon. Not long ago - on a recent trip - I had occasion to offer a benediction over this man's field. He was planting a garden. He invited me to pray for its bounty. This man, I'm told, is a very great author. You'd never know it, dearest brethren, to look at him. Humble and unassuming, a friend to all. And a most patient man, to suffer a charity ward right in his very home. Not long ago I helped exorcise it. Some demons had mistaken his abode for the Bottomless Pit, had entered in, had insulted him to his very face. I chased them out, saving his well-deserved reputation. And now, dearest friends, I will tell you that man's name. It is -"
By God - by all the gods - he was cut off!
"We interrupt this program for a special bulletin!" some reporter was announcing. The camera switched from Pastor Goodness to the President of the United States.
"My fellow Americans," the President read (it was obvious he was reading from cue cards), "I have the great pleasure of informing you that the Secretary of State is alive and well and at this very moment on his way to the United States from a secret and very urgent mission to the South Pacific, where a crisis almost occurred, a crisis he single-handedly averted. The battleship U.S.S. Dungeon became stalled on the International Date Line and had to be tugged either to today or tomorrow. The fate of the Free World hung in the balance. Without dispatch I summoned the Secretaries of State and Defense. There, in the Oval Office, they flipped a coin to see who would go. A cover story was needed, so we decided on the hijacking incident - we cleared it, of course, with a couple more prominent terrorist organizations first. Now thank God it's over, we can all breathe easier. The destroyer is headed forward. May God bless every one of you for your unwavering loyalty. And good night."
"We return you now to your regularly scheduled broadcast."
"A little late!" I noted, for the Pastor had already gone on to his "Sunday Schools I've Known and Loved' segment, as oblivious as a stone to the fact that no one - not one single listener - had gotten to hear my name mentioned. What a crock!
I was most dejected over this - not that I'm any sort of gadfly like Silly Jilly who, as the reader well knows, would do anything for his little moment in the limelight; no indeed. But I am, as I feel certain the good reader also knows, a very conscientious artisan who would be quite honored to have his virtues serve so noble a cause as Pastor Goodness' Holiness Hour. It was in this spirit only that I viewed the omission of my name as a disaster, if only of minor proportions. I hardly feel the need for publicity: God knows I'll get plenty once my novel goes before the public.
"You seem a little down today," my secretary observed.
"Well, yes," I owned, "in a way. I suppose I feel much too keenly the weight of the world. And it hurts seeing a fellow writer - though one of decidedly inferior rank - make a fool of himself in public. People get the wrong impression of art, and we all suffer for it. And I suppose too I feel the injustice of life; some are elevated who have nothing to merit their success, while others go begging."
"Much like the Madwoman," my secretary observed.
"What?" I asked. "One of my characters a bit loony?"
"Oh no," she replied, "I was thinking of Jean Giraudoux and his 'Madwoman of Chaillot.'"
"Some sort of psychiatrist?"
"No, a writer."
"A writer?"
"French. A playwright," my secretary explained.
"Oh, I see," I said. I think I saw - yes, being a fellow writer, I'm sure I did. Why wouldn't I? "So you read as well as transcribe?"
"Yes, I do," she replied. "In fact - may I say this? Every time I encounter those people downstairs I can't help but think of Pirandello."
"Another playwright?" I asked, my sense of logic filling in what my artistic sense omitted: the first one she mentioned being a playwright, why not the second?" She nodded. "French also?"
"No: Italian," she answered. "His 'Six Characters in Search of an Author': it seems natural to think of it.'
"Six?" I mused. "I've got him beat four-fold! Does that men my work is four times as good as his? But then, we're clearly of a different order, this Pirandello and myself, for whereas his characters, I take it, sought him out, it was I who sought out mine, on the advice of a lady I encountered in the library. Perhaps they even paid him to write their story, whereas it's I who does the paying here - and far too much of it at that! what other famous writers do you know?"
"Sterne."
"Hhm. Sterne, eh. Sounds a bit too formal for my taste. Anyone else?"
"Gogol."
"I've heard of him," I said.
"Dead Souls: his masterpiece."
"Yes, I think I read it. Terrifying. But very well written. Where did you hear of all those people?" I asked. "Did you work in a library?"
"Just from reading," my secretary explained.
"And just think: one day you will not only have read but actually be able to say you worked for Roland R Domby. Something to look forward to, isn't it?"
"Yes," she agreed, adding that she had always had a special feeling for writers. She was actually a very pretty young woman. She had a glow about her as she spoke of her admiration for those of us who take up the pen instead of the sword. Yes indeed, a very pretty girl.
Undoubtedly my dejection at the awful state of things was what weakened my judgment. (How else explain this chapter?) I leave it as it is nonetheless, in order to establish once and for all the absolute need to have a single author fully in control of his work; all others - characters, etc - must be auxiliary to him, neither more nor less (at any rate, not more). I might quite profitably have edited Chapter 39 out altogether or at least presented my warning without demonstrating it; but I chose to issue this warning's full implications, thus the chapter - title and all.
Dear reader, let me say it straight out: save for my brief explanation plus a moment's exposition to show what events led to it, this entire chapter is the work of my characters. It is, accordingly, except for where I exercised total artistic autonomy, a decidedly inferior chapter, nowhere approaching the lofty standards I had set and strove to maintain. Again, I offer it solely to emphasize the importance of leadership; one does not - and must not - relinquish control of his enterprise - and, dear reader, if you come away with no other great truth, you have at least this, perhaps the greatest of all truths.
As I said, I was dejected at the sorry state of affairs in this world, that a non-entity like Silly Jilly could be interviewed on TV while many a far greater writer went unnoticed. Even my secretary, pretty s she was, with all her pratter about literature, had failed to pick me up. In truth, I was in no mood to write (and for me, that was something!). I sat at my desk but only stared at my pencil (so distraught was I that I had failed to notice having taken up a number 2 lead pencil instead of my Parker pen: I had discarded my Cross pen after Sister Mary Margarine managed to exorcise it, lest it decide once again to besmirch my good name). I could write nothing. Finally, I got up and wandered downstairs (just in time to catch the front door closing - but I was too heartsick to care). My characters noticed my plight immediately.
"What's wrong?" asked one.
"Something got you down?" asked another.
I explained that I had writer's block (such confessions are a decided mistake, for they encourage underlings to try and usurp your prerogatives). Right away my characters began offering to help me out, one even suggesting outright that I allow him to finish my book.
"Finish my book!" I cried in alarm. (As if one chapter were not harm enough to its integrity!)
"Just one chapter then," it was proposed as a compromise. Still, I hesitated: I am no fool, I know perfectly well what happens when too many hands get into the act. But they insisted; and I yielded (regrettably).
"Oh no! no! oh no! no!" I cried.
"Oh yes! yes! oh yes! yes!: they clamored. This went on and on till the azure skies thickened to indigo and disappeared within their own depths.
"Pooh," someone exclaimed in a voice I failed to recognize, "he's just like old Silly Jilly, ain't he?"
"What?" I nearly screamed.
"Yeah," the strange voice went on, "that's right. He wouldn't let us write a chapter either. Oh no, not him. Not the great Silly Jilly!"
"The great?" I could scarcely believe my own ears. I turned their proposition over awhile in my mind. Perhaps, I reasoned, I was being too obstinate. After all, if Silly Jilly, a known incompetent, felt his work insufficient to sustain one inferior chapter, did that mean I should follow suit? Of course his work could stand no such onslaught (particularly since the chapter in question would probably surpass his own!). Mine, on the other hand, could - and, by God, would or my name's not Roland R Domby!
"Alright," I said, "you may write the next chapter in my novel - but take care to preserve the narrative flow: point of view, style, themes, etc, otherwise I shall have to edit every single word." (As the reader perceives, it could well have stood a thorough editing, but I decided to leave it just as it was: its edifying value outweights its artistic syncopation).
Immediately my characters set to work, each eager to tell his own story as if it were a part of mine. A fierce discussion broke out on what should be included. (I listened attentively, hoping to discover who it was had brought up Silly Jilly's name, but I was unable to detect that voice again, just as, earlier, I had failed to notice any lips moving when it was spoken - but its having been said rather hastily, it would have been a miracle had I seen who had spoken).
"What do you mean not important?" a young man cried out in a loud voice.
"Not important literarily," his interlocutor explained.
"Not important?" the young man reiterated. "I'm horny, damn it! Here I am with my...you know what...always in your know what condition...all the time! And I can barely sit down, and I'm going crazy over it - and you tell me to consider what's important in literature? Why isn't what's important to me, in my life, important in literature? Huh? Tell me that!"
"Literature transcends your...you know what," was the reply (a very wise reply too, I might add).
"Damn it I want to write about having an orgy - an orgy, damn it! And all the things I'd do. And maybe even getting one of the chicks pregnant. And she'd maybe slap me with a...what's it called? where she says I'm the one? The pater noster? Is that the suit?"
"Ha! You call it that and the Pope'll slap you with a charge of plagiarism! And might just have your...you know what...cut off to boot!" came the haughty reply.
"Well, what is it?"
"Paternity," someone offered.
"Yeah, that's it: paternity. And me in a singles' bar when they come arrest me. But I fight 'em to the death. And I'll have on my leather jacket and my Levi's. And my boots - to boot! And -"
"Hell you will!" said another. "This novel is genteel - you know what that means? Genteel. No leather. No Levi's. No boots. Just simple, stylish polyester. Maybe Dacron. A little acrylic too perhaps. But that's it!"
This went on well into the night. I finally went to bed, leaving my characters to iron out the kinks in Chapter 39. Need I say how miserably they failed?
Take heed, future writers, lest this happen to you also. For if you once relinquish control over the events of your novel, or let your subordinates dictate any portion of it, the results will again and again come back to haunt and embarrass you. I selected very carefully the title of this Chapter that its absurdity might stand all the more prominent amidst its fellow Chapters. Do your best; neither borrow from other authors nor lend your own work out - and, soon enough, success will be yours. (Good luck.)
Absurdities come in pairs. Or else one leads to another. It does something to one's work, as I discovered, to allow the ridiculous in even for a moment. I wondered, as the bizarre events I am about to relate unfolded, whether, in allowing my characters too free a hand, I had unwittingly encouraged them to misbehave. I ask the reader's pardon if these events seem shocking; I pray I do not seem a pornographer with my too truthful depiction of the world around me. But I am an Artist, and a man of Taste and Breeding as well. Shock, I may; but never scandalize: of that you may be sure. For my guide is Brother Truth, child of Reality, father of Principle, guardian of Inspiration. So bear with me, anxious reader.
I no sooner had Chapter 39 down on paper than I was awakened (I had fallen asleep at my desk) by a tap at my door. This was very early in the morning, for I had arisen at eight A.M., wishing to copy my characters' transcription (one among them served as stenographer) while I was still numb with sleep. I went downstairs, collected the transcript, returned to my study and began writing, editing as I went (as best I could, given the hopeless nature of my task). No writer enjoys reading third rate prose, let alone copying it into his own work; but a deal had been struck, so I felt compelled.
I arose to see who was at my door, but found no one. I happened to glance down and, there, at my feet, was a note. I picked it up and read it.
"If you want to know what goes on Behind Closed Doors, be at 241 Clock Lane tonight at 11 P.M."
In truth I did not care what went on behind closed doors. I would have ignored the note altogether, what with its insidious invitation to voyeurism, had I not (and rightly so) concluded some manner of involvement on the part of my characters - for why else would I be given such information, or who, for that matter, if not one of my own characters, would have written the note? I felt obliged to investigate.
(The more chaste among my readers may wish to skip over the rest of this chapter: it isn't pretty, although it does give the lie to man being a primarily moral being; and in that edification lies the justification for my including what follows.)
Night was fast approaching. I grew restless with writing: I tried concentrating on my writing but could not. Besides which, having no automobile of my own, I was apprehensive not only about leaving at so late an hour but also about calling a taxi: what if whomever was implicated in the note noticed my leaving, put two and two together and, as the guilty so often do, failed to show at the address I was given? Finally I decided on a strategy. Getting dressed, I descended the stairs.
"Could someone call me a taxi?" I asked. It was done. I thanked the individual who had made the call. "I'm on my way to my publisher's," I announced. "He's giving a small cocktail party in my honor. I almost forgot it. Nine, the invitation says. And here it is going on ten-thirty. I just don't know where time goes! Now I may not be back early, so don't wait up. If I'm needed, I'll be, as I said, at my publisher's, over on the West side." Upon hearing the taxi, I bid my workers adieu, quite pleased at having thought - just at the last moment - of placing myself in the opposite direction from where the rendezvous was supposed to take place.
"241 Clock Lane," I told the driver.
"Okay, Mack," the driver responded. I hate it when they assume that familiar "Mack" of theirs. "Going to meet your honey, eh?" he asked, as if it was any of his concern, or as if I could possibly be taken for someone on his way to meet his "honey" when I was on my way to...well, I couldn't exactly say "spy"... but on my way to an important meeting. I felt like reminding the driver that just because I do business with his company does not entitle him to inquire into my business; but I did not wish to encourage a conversation.
Twenty minutes later I arrived at my destination. "Can you be back here in half an hour?" I inquired.
"Quickie, eh?" he posited. "Real slam bang thank you ma'am tonight, eh?"
"Just be here!" I said. "There's a good tip in it for you." I was indignant and he knew it.
Clock Lane is situated in such a way as to almost intersect 8th Avenue, the fact of its coming to a dead end at a parking lot all that prevents the juncture. As I had already had occasion to discover, this area forms part of the "Red-Light District." Needless to say, I was embarrassed being here, but not really surprised that anything which went on "Behind Closed Doors," as the note stipulated, would occur here. Ahead of me (for I had asked the driver to let me out a few doors down from my destination) was a bright red - actually red, but not brick - building four stories tall and extremely narrow. I could not tell by the half light of an almost exhausted street lamp how deep the building went. Its roof appeared monstrously gabled: I would surmise the roof to sit at a twenty degree angle. As I approached I heard voices coming from the portico - familiar voices. I crept silently along the sidewalk, sticking close to the building. Stopping just to the left of the portico, I overheard a most scandalous conversation which, it pains me to say, two of my very best characters were engaged in.
"He's supposed to be here," a feminine voice noted.
"Keep your drawers on," a masculine voice countered.
"Just worry about your own drawers - leave mine alone!" said she.
"Aren't we touchy tonight!" said he. "Oh, here he comes!" he suddenly observed.
The door was opened from inside. A voice, also masculine, said "I'm coming, I'm coming!" The two went inside. A moment later I was inside also. True it was not my building, nor had I been invited (unless you take the note I received for a sort of invitation); but, nonetheless, they were - two of them anyway - my characters, in my employ, working to help me complete my masterpiece. If that did not justify my actions, I don't know what did. One has a responsibility, after all, to one's work, as well as to the general public to maintain as high a standard of morality as possible. This, as I read it, entitles one to expect those who do his bidding to live up to the same high standards.
I followed them, keeping a safe distance, down a long corridor and up one flight of stairs, which opened onto a blazing red foyer. Just as I peeked around the corner to see if the coast was clear, I saw a door shut halfway down a hallway. I tiptoed (for there was no carpeting) to the door and listened. I heard nothing. That could only mean one thing: the three of them were locked in amorous embraces "behind closed doors." Just as I had suspected.
Suddenly a voice rang out. "Give it to me! Give it to me!" the woman cried.
"You ever seen anything like this before?" the third party - the unfamiliar voice - inquired.
"You really got the stuff," said the male voice which was familiar. "Oh yeah: put that thing right under my nose! Oh yeah. I'm ridin' high! Ridin' high!"
I had heard enough. I knew what I must do, so I hurried on back to my rendezvous with the taxi driver. And, from there, on back home.
Being absolutely imperative that I return home before my two wayward characters, I impressed upon my driver the need for haste. "But disobey no traffic laws," I reminded him. We arrived in very good time; even so, I despaired for a moment of being already too late. Just as we drove up, I saw my front door shut. Oh dear, I silently said, they're here! Pooh!
A very dejected author indeed, it was, who entered his living room, trudged upstairs, and removed his top coat and hat. I was preparing to undress when a commotion outside drew my attention to the window. I looked out and - lo and behold! - there they were: my two characters, returning home. The reader can well imagine my excitement upon discovering I had not in fact been beaten home. Just who had earlier entered (if entered they did and not merely looked out I had no idea; nor did I care. What mattered was that I had not missed my characters' return. I hurried back downstairs in order to confront them.
They appeared to be drunk. "Well, well, well: what have we here?" I asked as soon as their faces showed at my threshold. They both started, at first standing stark still then looking about as if to effect a hasty retreat. "And where, pray tell, so late at night, have you been?" I further asked. They looked at one another.
"Oh...we...uhm...we," the untoward male began.
"We...that is...uhm," the untoward female tried to assist.
"Yes?" I prompted.
"We...went for a walk!" they both said, practically in unison.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Uhm. Well, really, nowhere," said he.
"Nowhere?"
"Well...uhm...outside," said she.
"Outside?"
"Yes," they both said. They knew I knew they were stalling. "Outside. To see the garden. Uhm...the carrots...yeah...the carrots."
"To see the carrots?" I asked.
"Just to see them."
"And how were they?"
"How were what?" asked he.
"The carrots."
"Oh. The carrots. Yeah, they were good."
"Good? Just good?"
"Very good in fact!"
"As green as ever?"
"Oh yeah - I should say so!"
"Ripe enough, do you think?"
"No, not quite green enough yet."
I looked them straight in the eye. How could they - or anyone - tell if the carrots were green enough yet since carrots grow underground? Did they take me for a fool not knowing that?
"I see," I said in a musing sort of way. "Not quite green enough yet. Tell me: has our garden moved?"
"Moved?" asked she. "Why would it have moved? Who would have moved it?"
"Oh, I don't know," I replied. "I just thought perhaps it found it way into the city - say, for instance, all the way over to Clock Lane." I saw the effect my supposition had. "Number 241, let's say," I added pointedly. "Second floor." They turned as pale as ghosts. "Something wrong?" I inquired.
"Oh no," they barely managed to reply. By now a good many of my other characters had begun to appear. In a way I would have liked to handle this affair quietly; but then, especially as they were already assembling, it might be just as well to make a full blown example of this instance, thereby establishing once and for all what would and would not be tolerated in my house. Once I felt that enough, if not all, of my workers had assembled, I turned again to the two whose actions had blighted the reputation of my household and, indeed, threatened to undercut my very work.
"You," I announced, pointing, "Penelope Jonesport. And you," I again pointed, "Poppyseed: both of you: I caught you both red-handed at 241 Clock Lane conducting yourselves with the most shameless abandon. Your conduct, not only unbecoming to characters in a Roland Domby novel, but a scandal to all involved, cannot go unpunished. Such licentious behavior -"
"Hey!" cried Penelope. "You just watch it who you're calling licentious!"
"Yeah," agreed Poppyseed, "you just cool it there Bud who you're calling licentious!"
"I reckon I can call whomever I wish licentious in my very own home!" I insisted. "And I indeed shall!"
"Well, just get your facts straight first! We weren't engaged in no licentious conduct! We maybe got a little high on coke - but that's it!" Poppyseed insisted.
"A likely story," I retorted.
"You got no business snooping!" they both said.
"I got plenty of business snooping!" I said. "All the business in the world! Don't forget who pays your wages, who feeds, clothes and shelters you, who gives you meaningful work to keep you occupied!" I paused, for greater effect. "And," I added, "don't forget one other thing too: don't forget who it is can fire you."
"Fire us?"
"That's right, fire you!"
"You can't fire us - we're under contract." Poppyseed had taken to doing all the talking now.
"Can't fire you, can't I? Ha! We'll just see about that! Because - you, Poppyseed; and you - Penelope: the both of you are herewith, hereby, heretofore and hereafter fired! Fired! Fired! Fired! Collect your things and be gone."
"What about your novel?"
"What about it?"
"What about our parts?"
"What about them?"
"You can't just write them out?"
"Want to bet?"
"The whole thing'll crumble if you do!"
"Want to watch while I do it? Want to see what crumbles around here?"
"We don't need to, we know you can't write us out - it was all you could do to write us in!"
"Get out!" I demanded. "You have fifteen minutes to gather your belongings and quit these premises."
"With the greatest of pleasure," snapped Miss Penelope.
"Yeah," agreed Mr Poppyseed. "We're tired working for a hack. It's time we hooked up with a real writer - like Silly Jilly!"
Of all the cursed luck: I had already ordered them out of my house, so there was nothing further I could do. I had no choice but to take their monstrous insult in stride. Unless, of course -
"Make that five minutes!" I ordered. "Be out of here in five minutes!"
"Could we try for two?" asked Poppyseed in an arrogant tone.
"Two it is!" I called his bluff (how could anyone gather his things and leave so quickly - so it must have been a bluff). I noticed, as Poppyseed went about his business, he was counting; and, exactly as he reached 120,he and his paramour slammed the door behind them, crying "Long Live Silly Jilly! The world's Greatest Author!" I nearly vomited. Thank God no critic was out and about to overhear such obscenities or he would have thought for sure the end of the world was at hand.
The door shut, the lunatic ravings drowned out, the wanton pair gone, I breathed a sigh of relief, a very deep sigh. I thought that was the end of my troubles. I should have known better, for it seems ever to be the lot of genius to be beset by trouble. I no sooner recovered my composure than, noticing from one corner of my eye my characters milling about, restlessly, it occurred to me that now they too were preparing to confound me. Is there no rest for the weary? I pleaded in long suffering silence to know.
"Mr Domby?" a voice requested my attention.
"Yes, what is it now?" I replied in as gracious a voice a I could muster.
"You fired them, didn't you?"
"Indeed I did!" I proudly answered. "And would again if I had to."
"Does that mean you would fire us too given the provocation?"
"Absolutely!" I said, a bit too hastily I'm afraid, for, looking at my characters full face now, I encountered a peculiarly troubling aspect - troubling, that is, for me. They looked angry, defensive, God forbid even a trifle defiant. And me, the heart and soul of benevolence. "What I mean to say is," I tried to soften my reply, "I would be forced to respond, let's say, harshly, to that same manner of behavior."
"You'd fire us if we crossed you," someone elected to state what seemed to represent everyone's view; they all nodded their assent.
"This was a serious breach of morality," I pointed out. "God knows any employer would do the same. Our reputation was at stake."
"But the bottom line is," came the rejoinder, "our jobs are no more secure than our identities. We could be out on the street tomorrow."
"Only if you're immoral," I reminded them.
"What if someone happens to praise Silly Jilly as a great writer?"
"We are a literary establishment here," I explained, trying to remain calm (that name was like a red flag to me). "We must, above all, respect the great literary traditions of our culture. To praise a hack is a most serious breach of that respect, most unworthy of anybody who would aspire to the exalted title of 'literary figure,' be it author or simply character."
"You'd fire us."
"For your own good," I assured everyone. "Your own edification."
"But nevertheless: you'd fire us! So, tell us, since we have no job security, what, if not higher wages and better working conditions, is there to motivate us to do our best?"
"You're characters in a great novel - isn't that enough?" I asked, hoping to inspire them with the importance of their work.
"But what tangible is there in it for us?"
I must admit that question threw me at first. What could I answer? What was there in it for them? Surely something. Then it occurred to me: I had had good success in other instances relating whatever I needed done at the time to my novel's plot structure. Somehow I had a premonition it would not work so well now, but I tried it, none the less, hoping to gain time.
"Alright," I confessed, "I did not wish to have to tell you this just yet - I wanted the observations to be as objective as possible, so as not to compromise the realism of the piece. But you've forced my hand. I am planning to add a further dimension to the work, a much more distinctly laborious theme. That is to say, a theme of Labor and of its inherent rewards, a kind of 'virtue is its own reward.' This is why it's so very crucial you do your best."
Heads were nodding - all the wrong way: not up and down, but side to side. "We don't buy that," they said. "You'll have to come up with a better one!"
I thought and thought. I even feigned a coughing spell so as to obscure the time I was devoting to my thinking. What was I going to do? What could I say? How could I grow rich and famous if my characters refused to put forth their best effort? The whole work depended upon them - I couldn't very well up and say that though: or there'd have been no end to their demands! What in God's name was I to do? What could I do? I couldn't keep coughing all night long. Then, just as I was about to feign a fainting spell (I doubt whether it would have been successful), something came to me. Something so simple, such a natural and logical extension of my own aspirations, that I marveled I had failed to see it sooner. Of course, I thought, they want what everyone wants - neither more nor less. Anyway, not less. It was the perfect ploy, if only it chanced to work. And the odds were good: man would always be man (had not the great philosopher who sold me my opening line expressed man's innate greed, even declared himself a little guilty of it?); and characters would always be characters (not that I don't respect them, it's just that, well, face it dear reader, they are a rather gullible lot, and, between you and me, always reluctant to take much of a stand no matter how provoked, which is why they're characters, not authors or readers).
"How can you fail to see it?" I asked to know. "It's so obvious, yet you profess not to see it. Surely some of you see it, and only choose to feign blindness. For, if not all of you, then at least some of you are of first rate intellect - I know that."
"Fail to see what?" someone asked, a bit embarrassed. I knew I had them.
"The future," I replied. "Specifically, the outcome of your appearing in a famous best seller. In particular, the great and stupendous turn in your fortunes - all our fortunes. My friends and fellow workers, make no mistake: you will - all of you - become as a result of our association rich and famous!"
"Us?" they asked.
"Every last one of you!" I answered.
"But characters don't get rich and famous," they tried to counter.
"I don't know where you got that foolish idea," I said. "Maybe that comes from working with too many hacks, too many Silly Jilly's - for the two are synonymous. But, rest assured, the number of characters grown rich and famous is legion - legion, I tell you! Legion!"
"Like the Foreign Legion, you mean?"
"No, I'm talking a different legion today. Just suffice it to say there are countless numbers who are rich and famous."
"How many?"
"Too many to count."
"But who are they? Name some."
"Well, let's see," I stalled while I tried to recall some of my library books. "Oh gosh, there are so damned many. Let's see now. Well, here's one: what about Hamlet? He became a Prince. You can't say a Prince isn't rich. And everyone knows his name."
"But he got killed. We don't want to have to get killed."
Hmm, I thought, bad choice. "Well, I can think of six characters right off the top of my head who went searching for an author to write their story. And you know author's services don't come cheap - it's one of the highest paid professions. So they must have had a pretty penny."
For a moment I despaired of that example, fearing they might pick up on the exorbitant salaries authors can expect to make and demanding a larger share. Fortunately, they did not. So, rapid fire to cover my tracks, I came out with a whole string of characters - very careful to omit any modern examples for fear some of those who had modeled for them were present in my living room at this very moment. Eventually, I piled up a list of names so impressive that my characters bought my argument.
"Then we too can become rich and famous," they realized.
"Isn't that exactly what I've always told you?" I asked.
Luckily, characters have short memories.
My beloved reader will be pleased to hear that my novel took a dramatic turn for the better once the ideal working relationship between myself and my characters was established. In every single particular they strove to put forth their best effort. They were always on time, always dressed appropriately, and in character - a most critical advantage considering the great innovations I had lately effected.
I take a moment here to remind the reader of the nature of artistic creation (bearing in mind that I am a certified Author and, as the brochures I get from time to time in the mail testify, fully qualified to instruct others on becoming writers). Inspiration is fleeting, and instantaneous; consequently, one must be ready in a flash to capture it via his medium. This is why of all things perspiration and perseverance are most crucial to the artist: he must have the stamina to work at breakneck pace until his instant of inspiration has dissipated. He must not let his muscles and bones hold him back. Here is where my innovations come in.
I installed a public address system so as to be in constant contact with my characters. The reason is this: I began realizing how much greater the pitch of my creativity would be if, as each scene presented itself to my mind's eye, whichever characters were needed to flesh it out could somehow be brought before me. This way I could glance up at them as I constructed the scene they were in; my sacred fire would burn, if not brighter in their presence, certainly longer. As, indeed, I found to be exactly the case. It's quite true I sweated, but so is it true that my work benefited immeasurably by this new arrangement. I could summon my character or characters I needed; and, of course, they were all on call whenever I wrote, having been apprised of this new improved system, so that there would be as little hesitation as possible between my need for them and their appearance before me. The system worked well; though, of course, a few bugs remained to be ironed out, one minor problem being the occasional failure of the PA, once owing to a power blackout brought on by an electrical storm, several times due to mechanical flaws in the wiring. I toyed with...well, the reader will find that out soon enough. (I prefer not to introduce too many innovations all at once.)
My pen veritably flew in my hand across the pages unfurling before me. My notebooks overflowed with brilliant prose. A steady stream of characters - first one, then another, and another, and another still - passed through my portal. The constant stirrings, the sometimes heavy footsteps, the opening and closing - and occasional slamming - of my door all spoke of a fevered pitch of activity. To speak the truth, I myself felt a bit feverish. And, as it occurred little by little to me, my nerves were becoming ever so slightly frayed from the constant, but quite irregular, din of background noise. Again, I toyed with certain ideas which had come to my attention and of which more will be said shortly. The important thing was that my masterpiece was coming along beautifully.
"Styreen - Styreen Smith!" I called; and, momentarily, she appeared before me, startling me, actually, for she walked so softly and opened my door so soundlessly that I scarce was sure I heard her. But, she was, after all, my lead, so I chose to ignore her quietude. Next it was "Wasps of Winocher!" They were Styreen's polar opposites, as clumsy and heavy footed a pair as ever crossed a threshold.
"Can you be a little more quiet?" I asked. They stared at one another as if they had just been asked to formulate some new law of Relativity. I found them - their mannerisms, their style, their very presence - somewhat troublesome. It was, I suppose, inevitable that what ensued should happen.
As effortlessly as my pen flowed ink into words across my pages in the previous chapters, a sudden about face occurred which seemed to have dammed the flow both of ink from my pen and ideas from my brain, creating a virtual standstill. For many days - actually days - I puzzled over the phenomenon. Here I was, my skill certified and amply demonstrated, unable to proceed. Surely something of unheard of proportions must be taking place; I prayed the poltergeists had not returned. Never in the history of art had a writer been more blocked. From every possible angle I investigated, all to no avail, until finally in utter desperation, I phoned the Creatatorium.
"May I speak to Jerry please?" I asked.
"Speaking," the voice, which I had failed to recognize, replied.
"I'm caught fast in the grip of a horrible writer's block," I explained. "Any suggestions?"
"Get that old circulation going!" Jerry ordered. "Do fifty side straddle-hops, twenty summersaults, seventeen deep knee bends, three and a quarter push-ups, one head stand and, if you're still sluggish, bring your passage down here and I'll look it over."
"You wouldn't steal my ideas, would you?" I asked, just as a precaution.
"What for?" Jerry in turn, asked.
I did exactly as he said, almost bumping my head against the corner of my desk during one of my summersaults. I was good and sweaty; nevertheless, I still failed to produce a single phrase. So I got a taxi over to the Creatatorium. Jerry looked over my chapter, the one I was having so much trouble with; and while he did, I observed some of the great artists tuning up (or rather, toning up, perhaps). One man was contorting his body in such a way as to look with each contortion from another angle made by his many twists and turns. I asked what his specialty was and was told he photographed. Another kept bouncing a medicine ball on his head; he was in advertising. And, there in the corner, was a lady twirling herself on a rope like some circus performers do; her specialty, I discovered, was, of all things, twirling herself on a rope in a circus. It almost seemed crude.
"Won't it give your place a bad name," I asked, "having a mere circus star work out here?"
"Ordinarily, yes," Jerry confessed. "But her husband is the world's foremost computer artist - see him over there? The one lying on the bed of nails."
"Why is he doing that?" I asked.
"Who knows?" replied Jerry. He's set his own regimen. Never mind, though, I think I've found your trouble. Look here," he directed my attention to the third paragraph into the chapter. "These two right here -"
"The Wasps of Winocher," I identified them.
"Their entry is all wrong. Their demeanor, their very identities: they just don't belong here. There's something about them. Take them out, get rid of them, and you'll find your work will proceed as it should."
"Just...like that...get rid of them?"
"Get rid of them - just like that!"
I thanked him and returned home. I hated to fire anyone; but if, as Jerry suggested, they were playing their scene badly, if something about them did not lend credence to their characterizations, then, of course, as he said, they had to go. I summoned the Wasps of Winocher.
"You're just not working out right," I said after a moment's hesitation. They looked at each other, puzzled, then looked at me again. "I'm going to have to let you go - both of you."
"We're in the middle of a scene," they said. They had a most annoying habit of talking in unison, besides which their manner made me always think they were answering back.
"That's precisely the problem," I informed them. "The scene is proceeding so poorly I'm afraid I'll never finish it. All I can do is, simply, write you two out of it and hope the pace picks up. I'm sorry, but the work must go on, it must come first. One or two characters more or less don't make that much difference - unless they become burdensome, cumbersome, their presence troublesome. The whole must be given primary consideration. I'm sorry. I'll simply have to ask you both to leave. I'm really sorry. Perhaps, if you like, I could give you a few dollars' severance pay. I'll have my secretary write out a draft for a decent sum, say three dollars and seventy-five cents. That should cover car fare. And...good luck to you both. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding work; all kinds of novels, I understand, are being written just now."
"But they're not all getting published," they protested. "No one can pay you if they don't get published."
"Well, I'm sure you'll find something suitable. Good-bye now. I really must get back to work."
They stared a moment, then the Wasps of Winocher were gone. Doors were slamming, things banging all the way outside. A most clumsy pair. Immediately I set to erasing every trace of them from my novel; and, lo and behold, no sooner had I removed them than my work once more came to life, my pen again flew across the pages of my notebook.
(Let me say, parenthetically, that when I informed my shop foreman, Epsom Salts, of my decision, his reaction told me I had made the right decision. "I say, old man," he said, "I wondered when you'd notice their inappropriateness to your project. The Wasps of Winocher: no such beans, old bean. They're from Winocha! They could only muck up your masterpiece with their muckin' name, what!")
So quickly did my genius move my plot along that my characters could not keep pace. I would call, then call again, and then again; and, regardless how soon they appeared before me, it was never soon enough. By evening I saw my flow of ideas slowing down to a standstill, and no one really to blame. No one but nature, that is: the nature, more specifically, of time and space, and a given body's traversing the one within the framework of the other. I slammed my pen down finally, resolving to do something about this most frustrating turn of events. I spent most of the night working on the problem, till, well past midnight and purely by accident, the solution came to me. I happened to be watching TV, more to relax than to get any ideas (after all, how could a medium which could give valuable prime time to the likes of Silly Jilly offer me anything?). I paid little attention to what was on, till something caught my eye. And old cartoon - I don't know, maybe Tom and Jerry - had come on; and there, before my very eyes, was a mouse being chased by a cat across a conveyor belt, neither of them really getting anywhere, of course, since the belt was moving opposite the direction they were headed.
"That's it!" I exclaimed, leaping up from my chair. "That's just what I need: an assembly line! " I don't know how I had failed to see it until then; but, once I did see it, I resolved immediately to act upon it, first thing in the morning. I would have an assembly belt installed. Automation, I would bring to the fine arts. (Top that, if you can, Silly Jilly!) I made a list of what I would need to realize my great dream. First, I would need a genius to design it: Zimrod Zardon, who else? Next, I would need to take a loan from my bank. Finally, I would need to consult my realtors on getting the thing built. Then I went to bed.
I awoke early - barely nine o'clock. I called Zardon as soon as I had breakfasted.
"Zim...uh...Zim, yeah, Zim here. Who's this?" came the familiar voice of the great engineer.
"Roland Domby," I replied. "You helped solve a tremendous problem for me recently."
"You say a tree trimming problem, Willie? That's my line alright. I'll get my chain saw and come right over."
I decided to call him back - he had hung up again before getting my address, and I was not sure he had it on file. Besides which, I wanted to get to the bank and to my realtors first.
"Can you make it right after lunch?" I asked him.
"Make what? A tree? You want me to make you a tree, after lunch? I'm sorry, Willie, only God can make a tree. My job's to trim the tree. Unless you mean an artificial one. I have some papier maché out back. I suppose -"
I explained what it was I wished. "So it's in your capacity as an engineer I require your services."
"Well, I'll bring my level in that case."
I went now to the bank to secure a home owner's loan. Mr Horace Hokum-Poicus received me in his office.
"How's business?" he asked.
"You wouldn't believe how fast things are moving," I replied.
He thought a moment. "Yes, I would."
"It's like a house afire," I said.
"That's just what I always say!" he insisted. "Exactly what I say. Ah, but I see you're your old skeptical self. Hey Madeline," he called into his intercom. "Tell Mr Domby here - a real skeptic, won't believe a thing I say, but I respect him for it, shows character - tell him what it is I always say."
"A bark is worse than a bite?" Madeline suggested.
"Oh Madeline, do I look like a dog - don't answer that!"
"Don't cry over spilled milk?"
"I'm a banker - and, honey, we don't deliver!"
At last, Madeline got the correct saying. "What'd I tell you, Domby?" Hokum-Poicus asked. "Now, then, what can I do for you?"
"I need a loan. I'm going to have to modernize, I'm afraid," I explained.
"Never be afraid to modernize," my banker advised. "In fact, I can hardly believe you haven't done it sooner. Why, your data systems alone must be at least six months old! How will you ever compete? How will you keep blue chips coming if they have to work their way through ancient equipment first? By all means modernize! How much do you need?"
As he said this, he arose and motioned me toward the vault down the hall. "I think," I answered as best I could, "40 thousand should more than do it."
"My God, my God, you're a marvel!" he declared. "The very model of efficiency! To modernize one of the great business empires of all time, on a paltry 40 K! What a mogul! But, truthfully, Domby, you don't really expect to get out of here with just 40 grand, now do you? Come on, pal, you know me better than that! Why, I wouldn't hear of you walking out of here with a penny less than 50 g's if I have to stuff it in your ears! So, go ahead, help yourself, take whatever you want, whatever you need. Go ahead, oh go on, take it, for heaven sake, it won't bite, it's only money! There now, that's better, isn't it?"
I had grabbed up at least 50 thousand. "Actually, yes," I said, "it is."
From my bank I went directly to my realtors; and though it wasn't far, I took a taxi: all of a sudden a thunder storm had come up, and I had no intention of getting soaked with 50 g's in my pockets. A tremendous clap of thunder accompanied my entry into the real estate office of Barnhide, Legitt and Schoop-Schoop.
"Shut that door, for God sake, before the lightening gets in!" came a shrill cry from one of the offices. The voice and the office belonged to Tim-Tim Legitt. I of course complied, shutting the outer office door as quickly behind me as I could, a sudden gust of wind having followed me inside.
"There," I said, "it's closed."
At this, Mr Legitt made his appearance. As it so happened, the other two gentlemen were already in the outer office.
"Thunder is bad enough," said Legitt, "but lightening's worse. It's been known to split the hair on your head."
"And your head too," I pointed out.
"Oh my God," Legitt declared, "it's even worse than I imagined. Thank goodness you got that door closed when you did or I don't know what might have befallen us!"
"Well," I mused, philosophically, a natural enough state for an artist, "the way I see it is, if the lightening bolt has your name written on it, it's going to find you, wherever you are,."
"Oh my God!" cried Legitt, ducking under the receptionist's desk. "Send me a memo when it's over."
"Our associate," Mr Barnhide and Mr Schoop-Schoop explained, "was once nearly electrocuted when his electric razor slipped from his hand into the sink. Only the fact it was cordless saved him. He's been most keenly aware of the dangers of electricity ever since. He won't go near a frayed wire. And he calls an electrician whenever his radio needs new batteries. He's most cautious where there's the slightest shock hazard. But what can we do for you, Mr Domby?"
I explained what I had in mind. Barnhide called the firm's contractor and arranged to have him stop over after lunch to install the assembly line.
"Don't forget the electrician!" Mr Legitt called to me from under the desk as I was leaving. Just as I was opening the door, a clap of thunder peeled. Legitt cried out, raised up, banged his head, and fell to the floor. "It's got me!" he said. He was not hurt though, so I left. I had a very busy schedule to attend to.
Both Zardon and the contractor had beat me to my house. Both were waiting, patiently, for my return. I at once let them in and showed them where I wanted the conveyer. Zardon looked over the area.
"Will you want this wall out?" he asked.
"Now how in God's name you gonna stick a treadmill through a solid wall?" retorted the contractor. I did not care for his tone, nor his disrespect for the great engineer (envy, no doubt), nor his referring to my conveyor as a treadmill - but, wishing the work done as quickly as possible, I said nothing.
"Well," said Zardon, "I could have designed it to slip right under the wall. Maybe even stretch it around to where it would fit under the door."
"How you gonna stand anything on it if it's under the wall?" the contractor asked, and though it was a sensible enough question, I still resented his arrogant tone.
"Will you be using it to transport things?" the engineer inquired.
"Actually, yes," I replied.
"Oh dear," said Zardon. "In that case I'll have to consider the hypotenuesal angularity more carefully, not to mention the paraminobenjoitical schelinktity."
"At least there ain't no 'arities' involved this time," the contractor mumbled. "Maybe you won't almost break your fool neck this time." I almost ordered him out of my house there and then; but, he was good at his work and fast. He had gotten my chimney back together in no time at all. So I let the insults he hurled at greatness go unopposed.
In no time at all the engineer had come up with a design perfect to my needs. A simple belt, of inorganic materials, stretched over a sequence of metal cylinders, extending at an angle of some 45 degrees from the living room to a section of wall where my study, on the second floor landing, was situated. But as lesser mortals can never be satisfied, the contractor inquired how the belt would be braced; true, a sensible question, but it was hardly his place to second guess his betters. Zardon puzzled over that awhile.
"Ah," he said at last, "I see where I failed to allow for gravitational fractuarils. It may need to be braced, you're right." He then designed a most ingenious series of metal stands - like trestles - of graduated heights, each to be attached to the ceiling, thus supporting the conveyor belt.
"Wouldn't they do better on the floor?" the nit picking contractor asked.
"Oh no, I think not," replied Zardon, "not as swampy as this ground around here is."
"It won't be outside," the contractor, always quick to needle, reminded. "And the floor's pretty solid, I think."
"I don't know,' Zardon hesitated. "It could give way, say in a hard rain."
"Look Mack, I built it myself! It'll hold, it's sturdy." Such arrogance! Calling a genius like Zardon "Mack" - I felt as though I was in the presence of a taxi driver!
"Very well then, brace it to the floor," Zardon agreed, adding that he would not be responsible if it gave way.
The design complete, it remained only for the labor to be done. The contractor telephoned his crew, apprised them what tools would be needed; and, by nightfall, the project had been completed. A section of wall, the size of a door, had been removed, the remainder refinished and filled in as needed, the conveyor belt built and braced, and even a folding door had been installed at the opening to my study so that, in the evenings, when my day's work was done, I could restore my privacy. Ten o'clock I paid both the contractor and engineer, each according to the worth of his efforts, and bid them all a good night. Fifty grand, as it turned out, more than covered the costs. In fact, I had enough left over to give Zardon a bonus for his trouble and still put a good sum aside for my savings account, which, in truth, owing to my banker's generosity, had swelled enormously.
Bright and early the next day I resumed writing my masterpiece. I might mention that, as a special feature, which the great Zardon had in a moment of pure inspiration added, I was able to keep my characters a mere touch of the finger away at all times - all my characters, please note, for what Zardon had done was to extend the belt a portion of the way into my study, round it so that it turned back upon itself in a constant circle and install a series of buttons rather than one master switch, with the result that each character had his own place along the belt, corresponding to a given button. I needed only press the button labeled with any given character's name and, instantly, he - and he alone, the others swung back around and out of the way - would appear before me. It worked beautifully the first time; then, I don't know why, but it seemed the longer I used it, to fall out of synchronization. Each character somehow got farther away from the spot he would have had to be in in order to appear in time with his button being pressed. The round belt at the conveyor's terminus, in my study, went underneath the portion entering from below; this necessitated each character's leaping over the latter to maintain the desired circularity. At first I thought it was their random speed doing this that thwarted the plan; but we discovered it was not, for even when we timed everyone's leap until all were synchronized, the scheme still failed. And yet, strangest of all, each new day began with the same perfect alignment as on the first day.
Finally, someone figured it out: the system was geared to the rhythm of the ascent as well as the circularity. So, rather than change everything, or lose time while my characters returned to the living room after each turn, we worked out a fairly accurate scheme whereby they constantly shifted their position along the belt to allow for the error. It worked fairly well from then on.
(I might add that I would not have spent so much time describing all this were it not essential to give my readers as accurate a picture as possible of the nature of the creative process. This is, after all, a work of Realism.)
Dearest reader: man is an imperfect creature. I am not one of these pessimistic or cynical or deterministic or anything of the sort writer; nevertheless, in truth I must add my name to the list of those who maintain the inevitability of man's botching things up. Will it surprise my ultra sophisticated readers to discover how quickly my characters managed to thwart the great inventiveness of that peerless genius among civil engineers, Zimrod Zardon? (I doubt it.)
Barely a day went by before two of my minor characters all but caused the assembly line to be shut down. They were elderly, I would say in their late fifties, one a male, the other a female; and both had had a history of bumbling forgetfulness. They were entirely inefficient - so much so that I wondered who had ever recommended them for this highly demanding type of work in the first place. I will not take precious space listing their myriad faults; suffice it to say their unsuitability came to a head on my conveyor belt.
"Gramps Granfer!" I cried, still in the habit of calling out to my characters even as the button delivered them to my very fingertips. (In time, had things gone as planned, I would have of course ceased calling their names, it being superfluous, and to a practical person like me, therefore counterproductive.) Lo and behold, before I realized what was happening, there was Gramps climbing down from the belt and walking over to me. This I discovered upon turning in the expectation of finding him where he was supposed to be. Instead, there was a woman - Gina "Grandma Brass" Mimnons - grinning down at me from Gramps Granfer's place in line; and Gramps still struggling a good 90 degrees away to get down. Presently he ran around to where I was, huffing and puffing and red-faced. Well, in such a condition, he was very little use to me: I was constructing a scene where a vigorous man in his early 50's was fast at work. It tired me out just watching him.
"You're supposed to be up there!" I said, pointing to Gina Mimnons.
"Oh,," said Gramps. He then proceeded to climb back up, leaving Gina with no place to go. So she then climbed down.
"No! No!" I said. So she tried to get back up; Gramps reached to help her; and, in my haste to try and direct them I hit all the buttons (they were all on one panel). The belt started up, Gramps and Grandma both fell in a heap on the floor, and, worse yet, the mechanism jammed. The belt kept going round and round, would not stop.
"Help!" my characters began crying. "Save us! We're about to have an industrial accident!" I hardly think the situation warranted such overreaction.
I hurried to the phone and called Zardon, who explained where the master switch was. Unfortunately, there was nothing to shut the belt completely off with, only a level to speed it up or slow it down. All I could do was slow it down enough that my characters could climb down. We never could get it shut off, the off-on button on the panel had become entirely dislodged. The thing would evidently run forever, so long as I remembered to pay my electric bill. My characters would have to do the best they could to be where they were needed as they were needed. For my part, I would have to keep calling their names. Even the best laid plans, dear reader, sometimes go awry.
I called Gramps Granfer and Grandma Brass aside and asked them to take an early retirement. "Either that or be fired," I pointed out when they balked.
"When will we get our pension?" they asked.
"How about Social Security? They've got all kinds of money," I suggested. They said they would have to look into it.
I didn't enjoy sending them on their way like that, with no prospect for an income; but what could I do? I could not jeopardize the project, or my other characters' employment, or my dearest readers' enjoyment, could I now? There really wasn't anything else to do.
In time, I got used to the steady hum of the conveyor belt. Day and night it ran. Perpetually its hum filled my house. It no longer kept me awake. And it managed to keep my book flowing. Sort of.
If it is, as I think it is, the first duty of a great Author to present as complete a picture of the world around him as possible, it is his second duty to provide as profound an insight into the nature of life as he can. Certainly one must entertain, first and foremost; but likewise he must inform. So it is that I must relate an incident which, even if it has no bearing on the business at hand, is of such astounding significance as to warrant inclusion prima facie.
About a week after the virtual ruin of my assembly line, and before I grew accustomed to its incessant hum, I simply threw up my hands, set down my pen, and walked out of my house. "I'll be back!" was all I said. I simply had to get away, so I began walking, entirely at random.
"Where you headed?" someone asked. I turned and saw, fast on my trail, the jogger who had first apprised me of the Creatatorium.
"Nowhere in particular," I replied.
"Why aren't you jogging?" he then asked. "I thought you were serious about becoming a great author."
I didn't quite know how to answer him, for, technically, since I had begun and was well into my masterpiece, I could no longer be said to be merely on my way to becoming a great author: in so many words, I had already arrived.
"I've got blisters on my toes," I said.
"Hmm," he mused, running in place beside me so as not to lose his momentum. "Blisters, eh? How much your jogging shoes cost?"
"Oh, I think I got them on sale at Metricula's Sporting Goods," I replied.
"Bah! No wonder! If you didn't pay at least $75.00, they're not fit to put on, let alone run in! Take the ones I've got on, for example: the SOB's tried to mark them down to $60.00, but by God, I wouldn't let them! No way anyone's going to catch me in $60.00 jogging shoes! The very idea! Why, my feet'd be a live work of calluses, blisters, corns and what-not! So take my advice: head on down to Metricula's, if that's where you shop, and make her sell you the most expensive shoes she's got! And don't take no for an answer."
With this advice, he resumed his pace. Within minutes, he had disappeared over the horizon. Fate always works to your advantage - I've found that out many times over. Here I had started out, absolutely aimlessly, and now, in a flash, I had a goal. No longer would I walk for the mere sake of walking; rather, I was on my way to Metricula's - in which direction I had already been headed - to purchase a pair of $75.00 jogging shoes. It was a right good walk, and, I must admit, my feet were becoming quite sore; but what's sore feet compared to an aimless walk?
Finally, I sighted the object of my outing: the County Shopping Mall and Cultural Center, two stories full of commerce, where ideas as well as goods were traded. Each week a new "ism" was ushered into the big lecture hall. Each week a new article appeared in a shop window somewhere along the two levels. Life went on, as it should.
Just ahead, however, was something which sent a chill down my spine. In the parking lot, beyond the Salvation Army truck, was a flashing light - several lights, actually. I hurried over and, to my great horror, there, being carried on a stretcher toward an ambulance, was my great friend and mentor, the jogger. To think, I had just spoken with him barely half an hour ago, and here he was now, moaning and groaning on an ambulance stretcher.
"What's the problem here?" I asked.
"Threw a shoe," a policeman replied.
"What? While he was running?" I inquired to know. The policeman went and collected a man in handcuffs and asked if he had been running when he assaulted the jogger. I could barely believe my eyes: the prisoner was none other than the exponent of Entropisticism who had asked the Salt Brothers and myself to distribute his handbills when he first moved into this area. Now here he was being arrested for assault. His ideas, I feared, would have a hard time winning acceptance now.
"Ah," he said, recognizing me, "it's you. Well, they got me this time. Some trumped up charge -"
"Trumped up my ass!" my friend the jogger cried out. "You threw that shoe at me deliberately!"
"I threw it to make a point, damn it! That's what all motion comes to - including your almighty jogger-naut shuffle you think will save the world from winding down to a standstill! How'd I know you'd go and trip over it and nearly break your damn fool neck?"
"My damn ankle, not my fool neck!" the jogger corrected him. "Hell," he sighed as they lifted him into the ambulance, "I may never run again." This admission clearly softened the felon.
"Now there's a man after my own heart," he said. "Maybe some good will come of this after all." He too was taken away, in the squad car.
This incident had cooled my enthusiasm for Metricula's $75.00 jogging shoes. Nevertheless, since I was here, I resolved to have a look. First I took a leisurely stroll through the mall - and thank God I did or else I might have missed one of the most important demonstrations since time began. In the middle of the mall, on the first level, where they usually had either Aerobic dancing or some such sporting event as the county wide arm-wrestling championships, there was a demonstration by none other (as I later discovered) than Metricula's uncle, the proponent of Mechanisticism. What an irony, seeing both the Entropisticist and his nemesis the Mechanisticist on the same day, and in so close proximity - not to mention under such wildly differing circumstances. I became instantly curious what this demonstration might be: machines? computers? laser beams? But no: it was, if anything, even more stunning. It was children: ten boys and ten girls of varying ages (I would estimate between 7 and 10 years). And, now that I came to where I had a better view, I saw a sign. It read: "Genius - How, When, Where and Why." Of all things to encounter: the one subject I knew most about.
Momentarily the Mechanisticist presented himself, gave a brief description of his theories (which, in general, extolled the great virtues of progress, of machines, of high energy consumption), then introduced his demonstration. He pointed to a clock on a post.
"See that?" he asked. "A stop watch. Together we will determine the perimeters of genius, using nothing but that. These children here will be given IQ Tests. They will be timed. Those who finish first are the geniuses, and so on. I call this my Time-Lapse Study, for it posits an exact correlation between genius and the time which elapses from the moment they begin till they finish the tests. The quicker the smarter. Genius does one thing: it works fast. A Mr Einstein once invented the speed of light because he knew the day would come when conventional methods would be insufficient for measuring the speed with which genius operates. Alright, if you're all ready, let us begin. Children: open your booklets and start in!"
Each time a child finished, the clock was stopped and the time recorded. Twenty times this was done, until all were finished. The three fastest children were brought over to where the Mechanisticist was and presented with certificates attesting to their Genius. The rest were excused.
"And little boy," the Mechanisticist took the fastest aside to question him, leaving the other two, both girls, where they were, "what does it mean to be a genius?"
The boy thought a moment. "The square root of 7 is...." I failed to catch his answer.
"Why yes, in a way I suppose it does mean that. But what does it mean to you personally?"
The boy thought and thought. "The square of the distance of the ratios of any two stices is equal to the sum of their respective vertices."
"Yes, that's doubtless true too, but, tell me, what do your parents think about your great gifts?"
Again the boy thought, drawing almost a total blank. Then, "Microbial diffusion never proceeds but often follows organic infusion."
Clearly the boy was a genius, clearly the demonstration a success. Speed equals the cube of intelligence factored by quotients of seven (or something like that; I may have it backwards).
The demonstration over, I decided to walk through the mall, stopping here and there to inspect some or another quaint little shop. I even stopped into the arcade, to play a few games. They had a brand new one; Nature's Bounty, it was called. It consisted of a series of natural disasters which the traveler had to find a way to avert. Beset by earthquakes, which on the video screen might trap him between two walls of earth; by tidal floods, which could inundate him; by volcanoes, which if not avoided would scorch him; by fierce tornadoes which could carry him away; and by lightening which could electrocute him - the object was to reach Utopia, at the top of the screen, using shovels, explosions, scuba gear, asbestos suits, wind-breakers and lightening rods. There were buttons for each defense; at random were the disasters encountered. I had to be fast, and was, for I well knew the unpredictability of nature. Even so I failed to reach Utopia. My traveler expired inside a tornado: I mistakenly hit the asbestos suit button; weighted down, he could not escape. Nature was programmed to taunt "Na-na, na-na, nana!"
Finally working my way to Metricula's Sporting Occasions, who should I encounter but the purveyor of the wonderful demonstration I had witnessed earlier. First I browsed, Metricula engaged in a heated discussion with her staff and the Mechanisticist.
"There is no such thing as athletic genius!" the latter maintained.
"What?" cried Metricula, each of her sporting goods specialists echoing her sentiment. "No such thing?"
"No such thing!"
"You bowl a perfect game, or double birdie, or swim the Channel - and you mean to say that's not genius?"
"Impossible!" the Mechanisticist steadfastly maintained. "It's a sham! Fully as much so as the best work of art!"
This attack on not only my credibility but that of all my fellow artists, I could not ignore. "Just hold it there," I insisted. "I happen to be an Author, by some accounts a very great one - yet you're going to stand there and deny I'm a genius?"
"You don't see me sitting, do you?"
"What am I then, chopped liver?" I demanded to know.
"Hold the onions," was all he replied. Then he walked out.
"Of all the insolence," I said. "Who was that mad man?"
"That was my uncle," Metricula informed me. "A Newtonian clear down to his toenails. If you can't split atoms, he's got no use for you. Infinitives don't count, either. You take me, though: to me, there isn't any sight any grander than a bowling ball striking ten pens in just that special way to knock 'em all over."
"Surely you don't mean they all fall over, do you?" I asked. Common sense told you they couldn't all fall over, they cover too big an area for the ball to hit each one. I could tell, though, that Metricula doubted the simple logic of my observation.
"Before I kick you out of here, Sonny," she said, but good naturedly, "what can I do for you?"
"I'd like to see your jogging shoes," I said. I was shown every pair. I settled upon a $72.50 pair. Then I returned home. I could hear the conveyor belt humming almost a block away. When I got home, I went directly to my study. The moment I walked in, I sensed that something was wrong. I looked all around the room but could find no indication of anything out of order. I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the conveyor belt had somehow unearthed another crop of demons when suddenly, my eyes coming upon my desk, I beheld something which crowded all thoughts of spirits out of my head. For there, atop my desk, exactly where it should be, was my notebook - my manuscript.
But it was open, and I distinctly remember closing it. Upon closer inspection, my suspicions were confirmed, for not only was it open, it was open to a chapter I had already completed. Not one to look back, I never peruse what I have finished writing (leave that to my editors). I noticed also, or so it seemed to me, that my outline had been disturbed as well. Somehow its pages weren't right, they were ever so slightly creased where they had no business being creased. Following the line of the most prominent crease, I turned to where my outline appeared to have been most disturbed.
"Should you really have been surprised?" I wondered. Indeed, any other place most creased would have been the real surprise for, just as my manuscript happened to be open to my very best chapter, so too did the path indicating my outline's direction lead to where my most profound ideas where listed. I put two and two together and came up with a most unsettling sum. It was apparent (still too early to say "clear") that my work had been searched, and that its greatest treasures had yielded themselves to whomever had initiated the search. My best chapters, my most original ideas - someone had in effect purloined them, lifted them right off the pages they were written on. But for what purpose? Who in his right mind would wish to steal anything from me? Surely this could not be blamed on poltergeists! But who?
"Oh my God!" I cried as it dawned on me what not merely the most plausible but the only explanation was - had to be - must be. Espionage. Artistic - literary - yes, considering the great enterprise writing in America is today, even industrial - espionage! But of what conceivable value would my ideas, my chapters, be except in the hands of a fellow author? And I have no budding authors among me. Besides, who would need to steal my ideas? Who, indeed but a hack? -
"Oh no," I murmured, my thoughts suddenly frozen into a hideous image, as monstrous as anything from the Black Lagoon, a thing so ugly, so abominable, the mind could only recoil before it. "Not him. Surely not him."
The "him" I refer to, I would give anything to spare the gentle, kind reader having to encounter (especially on a dark night, in a blind alley, beneath the full moon). But I see no alternative. I cannot in one breath declare myself a seeker after Truth, then in the next refuse to name that truth.
What I suspected, beloved reader, whose taste is beyond reproach, was that this intrusion, this intrigue, this espionage - yes, this conspiracy - could be laid at the feet of a rival author. A poor author, hardly worthy of the name and, save for his treachery, barely worth naming at all.
Him. My arch enemy.
Silly Jilly.
A name to strike fear in the heart of any decent reading public - the nameless, mind-numbing fear of some day having to do a critique of his work!
Truly, indeed, had I this time been visited by a Demon.
The reader is no doubt wondering how on earth you pick out the best chapters in a masterpiece, or the most original idea put forth by a brilliant mind. This, I affirm, is why we have critics. So now I will reveal something I have heretofore kept secret (secret, that is, from my readers: I was saving it for the right moment.) I, author that I am, am also a Certified Literary Critic. I have been sneaking out, as it were; on the sly I have been studying under the careful tutelage of Jerry's associate Michele at the Creatatorium. This has not been an easy course of instruction, but well worth the effort. My classes have ranged all the way from page pulling to Karate.
"Start with short stories," Michele advised; "work your way up to novels. Let me demonstrate. You take the book jacket in your left hand - a firm grip. Next, with your right thumb and forefinger you - firmly, very firmly - grasp this middle seven pages. And pull hard, applying as much pressure as you need to rip the pages from the binding. Now, taking the remaining pages, you work them into a little ball using only your tongue and teeth. Finally, spit them out one by one. Here, you try it."
I almost gagged the first few times. Luckily Michele was well versed in life saving techniques. She pounded my back and reached her fingers down my throat - "Come out of there, you third rate pulp you!" she cried and coaxed. For my Karate, I began with Stephen Crane's "Red Badge of Courage" and slowly - very slowly - worked my way to Tolstoy's "War and Peace." In time, I could work my way through any novel ever written, so long as it was available in paperback. Then, like magic, my concentrated sixteen week course was over, my Certificate was awarded me. I gave a brief demonstration.
"By God he can spit out those barbs!" they all agreed.
"A regular old acid tongue!"
"And look at that, look at that! See how he cuts right through the malarkey and comes straight to the heart of the work? A born critic!"
Now, dear reader, you see why I could so easily spot the best parts of my work. It's easy once you know how. And it's a technique I will have all my life. The problem was discovering who the conspirators were. I fully meant to get right on it, but as it happened my agent telephoned me (finally I had gotten my new address and phone number to all my friends). Ironically, this turned out to aid rather than hinder my progress in ferreting out the culprits.
"Domby?" my agent's voice asked.
"Yes, this is he," I answered. In truth I had failed to recognize who it was. The connection was obviously very poor, because he sounded drunk. "Who is this?" I asked.
"Hampton...Hardon...Humpton - God damn it! I'll get it right yet! Hanson: Hanson R. S. Misers. God damn it! Meyers! You God damn right, that's who! And I've got a prostitution for you. God damn it: a proposition! You're gonna need a good Pisser man - God damn it: PR - a PR man! A good one! And I got just the one for you too. My cussin' - God damn it! My cousin! Mr Ding-a-lingle - God damn it, that ain't it! Mr Dingle. Shemp Dingle. Shemp. God damn how do you like that: I said it right! Give him a call. I made an appointment. He's in the phone book, right under 'Public' - ha ha ha ho ho ho! I almost said 'Pubic!' Right there on page 88 under 'Public Relations.' Dingle and Berry. Nah, just kidding. He's a lone wolf, my cousin. Shemp Dingle, PR to the Stars. Writers too. He made Donkey Hunk what he is today. Taught him everything there was to know about trench coats! Ha ha! Gotta go now, Domby, gotta run. Got more than one 'run,' if you get me. God damn it!"
He hung up. I immediately phoned his cousin Dingle to confirm my appointment. I had not heretofore thought much about such things as public relations; I just assumed they would take care of themselves. But now that the matter had been introduced, it became clearer by the moment how necessary it was and how lax I had been in that regard. Here was my novel half finished, and I had yet to secure the services of a good PR man. The more I thought about it, the more determined I became. I might have gone into the thing like a babe in the woods. Now, thanks to my agent's foresight, not to mention his enormous literary acumen, I was shown the correct path to take to insure my success. I meant to have me a PR man!
My appointment, scarcely a day away, seemed an eternity coming. I was on pins and needles; I grew more anxious by the minute realizing what a crucial base I had left uncovered. Suppose I had failed entirely to secure the guidance which only someone who understood the public forward and back could provide? What then? The horrible specter of failure rose up before me like a demon ready to consign me to oblivion, obscurity, anonymity. I couldn't help thinking of my characters, of those poor lost souls whose names would never be known, who would live out their days utterly unknown, unrewarded. I simply could not let that happen to me. Where was the good of being a great author if no one knew it? Eagerly I wished the morrow.
Finally it came: the hour of my appointment. I hurried to the address the yellow pages had given me. Again, I entered a poor neighborhood. Our television district, on a hill in the center of which sat a complex of buildings, each of these home of a local television station. Surrounding, was an assortment of row houses, some reasonably well kept, others in a truly deplorable state. High atop the hill, overlooking the entire neighborhood, was a television transmitting tower, from which a continue blink of light was emitted, like a code, or the flash of one of those pulsars the astronomers speak of. The streets were exceedingly winding, the turns leading from one street to another not only on an upgrade but at sharp angles. The address I had given the taxi driver, 010203 Clifstead Drive, could only be reached through a twenty-five degree turn from Molar Avenue, itself a forty-five degree turn off Streamline Parkway. I felt almost dizzy as I stepped from the taxi and looked up at the transmitter arising from behind the row of houses. The one I sought was on the end of the row. This rather surprised me; I expected an office building, or perhaps even a suite inside one of the television stations. I went to the door and knocked. An exceedingly prim lady opened it.
"What is it?" she demanded to know.
"I'm here to see Mr Shemp Dingle, Public Relations Man," I informed her.
"Have an appointment?"
"Most assuredly."
"Then come in - wipe your feet first: I don't know where those shoes have been."
I complied and was ushered into a small parlor. From the appearance of things, this was Dingle's home as well as his office; the lady evidently his receptionist and perhaps housekeeper as well, judging from her concern for the place. It was, I must own, a most tidy place, somewhat Early American in decor. I started to sit down on a small floral print sofa.
"Don't sit there," the lady advised. I indicated, next, a small arm chair, also of a floral pint; it had a clear vinyl covering. She acknowledged I could sit there. She disappeared into another room, perhaps a study. Momentarily a very pale looking man of about 40 entered, closed the door behind him, and greeted me.
"You are Roland R. Domby?" he asked. His voice was very flat, and he spoke very slowly.
"Yes, I am."
"I am Shemp Dingle - the 'e' is silent, so please do not try to say 'Dingley,' as so many are wont. It won't sound. Now then, if I understand correctly, you are a great literary author." I acknowledged the truth of his supposition. "And you wish to discover what is expected, required and demanded of you by the public, I take it." This, too, I acknowledged. "Please come into my office."
The door he had entered from was again opened. Together we entered a very neatly organized room containing a desk and a credenza. On the latter was a video terminal. After seating us both, Dingle reached behind him and turned up the screen. It was green. He keyed in a few items; suddenly, the screen came alive with a list of what appeared to be about a dozen entries, under the heading "Literature." The first thing he did was enter, where it said "Name," my name.
"We'll take them up one at a time," he explained. I liked him; I liked his approach to this matter. He was business-like and sedate. He was scientific, objective, unlike lesser men, who, it seems, tend to approach public relations as a rather much-too-frivolous, hit-or-miss, here-today-gone-tomorrow manner. I definitely liked him. I felt in very, very capable hands. I made some casual comment on his having a computer. He stared a moment.
"How would one conduct serious business otherwise?" he wondered aloud. I of course agreed.
"I have one myself," I pointed out.
"But of course," he said. "You did say you were a great author." He stated it as if it could not be otherwise. A most perceptive man. "Now then," he went on, taking a moment to point with his pencil to the first line in the list. "Public Speaking," he said. "Let's analyze that. A great author must, above all else, be articulate." I assured him I was. "Ah, then you've taken the 'Toast and Roast' course," he surmised.
"Actually, no," I admitted, explaining that I had not gotten to it yet.
"You must not put this off another single day," he warned. He pressed a key on his terminal and a check mark flashed beside Public Speaking.
"You are now enrolled," he said.
"Just like that?" I asked.
"I am wired into their computer - indeed, into the computers of each enterprise the services of which you will need if you are to succeed at your trade." Next he pointed to the second item. Agility. He asked if I were agile enough to satisfy both the public and the critics. I explained my having attended two separate courses of instruction at the Creatatorium. He shook his head.
"All that does is ensure your creativity. You may well qualify to be a critic; but to please a critic you need more. Creativity alone will not suffice." He keyed another check mark. "I am enrolling you at the 'Move with the Times' Dance Studio. You must learn agility. The public and the critics demand it. I advise the 'Positivist Side-Step,' the 'Elitist Shuffle' and the 'Professional Hokey-Pokey.' But, of course, the choice is yours." He then pointed to Grooming.
"Ah, surely I need no assistance there," I said.
"Stand up," he ordered. "Turn around." I complied. "Alright, be seated. I admit your grooming does seem your strong point; however, I notice a slight blemish on your chin, and it appears your hair is starting to thin. And the patches on the elbows of your corduroy jacket are a little too wide for the truly modern literatti. I strongly recommend a short session with Mr. and Mrs. Henri at their 'Head to Toe Salon.' Concentrate on make-up and hair styling. I'm going to skip Costuming for now, though you can visit a good literary tailor on your own." He keyed an "X" beside this, the fourth listing and went on to the fifth.
"This is the subtlest," he explained, "but by no means unimportant. Small Talk, as you see, it is called. And appropriately so. Do not - I repeat: do not - confuse it, however, with Public Speaking. It's of a different sort. The former is for when you're on tour, or appear on talk shoes: elocution is its mainstay. The latter is for when you are invited to dinner parties and must make chit-chat with the matrons, some of whom may be the wives of your backers. This requires a special touch. I'm sending you to 'The Cocktail Hour.' There, you'll learn how to set certain rumors concerning yourself in motion, so that, come next cocktail party, you can be approached and asked to verify if such and such is true. Among other things."
Suddenly the screen went dead. "What happened?" I asked. Dingle shrugged.
"I don't know," he said.
"Perhaps someone pulled the plug?" I wondered. "Or cut a cable?"
"I choose not to speculate," said Dingle. "Only the established facts interest me. The tried and true. No fantasy for me."
"I admire you for that," I said. We waited awhile, but still the screen remained blank. "Perhaps we could go over the rest of the list using pencil and paper," I suggested.
"I don't recall the rest of the list," Dingle deferred. "The mind is too unreliable. A word here or a phrase there carelessly recalled and you've got catastrophe. I designed these headings purposely to assure my clients' success. I do not wish to risk continuing willy-nilly in any haphazard manner."
"You don't have them perhaps written down somewhere?" I asked.
"I do not!" Dingle replied. He sounded almost offended. An awesome intellect, his. "A slip of paper lying in a desk drawer is hardly my idea of professional! We will simply have to wait until my personal computer has returned to working order. I shall telephone you as soon as that happens.
We said our good-byes and I left. It was not until I returned home that I realized I had not left my telephone number with Dingle. I immediately phoned to inform him of it.
"I'm afraid you'll have to phone back later," he said, "my personal computer is down just now; I have no place to enter your number."
"Perhaps you could commit it to memory - it's only seven digits," I suggested.
"And risk transposing the digits? My God, man, next you'll be asking me to write it down and file it in a telephone directory! No, you'll just have to call back."
His mention of the directory gave me an idea. "I'm in the local directory now," I said; "it just came out this month. You can look me up there."
"Too uncertain, too haphazard, too unprofessional," Dingle replied. "You'll have to call me back so I can enter your number beside your name in my personal computer." He then hung up.
And that was that.
Gentle reader, please don't think that my masterpiece has been mixed, through a printer's accident, with the latest horror story. I assure you the pages which follow are as much mine as those which have already so delighted and informed you. I offer this assurance because what you will momentarily read will all but convince you that the pages of the book you now hold in your hands have been most cruelly bound. Believe me, dear reader, they have not. For one thing, no writer of horrors could devise so monstrous a creature as you will shortly encounter; for another, the exquisite style which you have come to associate with your most humble author could not be duplicated by another human being under any circumstances, even if he should try. You would know me by my style anywhere.
A most curious event took place not two days after my visit with my public relations expert, Shemp Dingle. I was, as always, fast at work when there came a knock at my front door.
"I'll get it!" said my secretary who, of all people, knew how little I liked being disturbed when I was working. I could hear the visitor from my second floor office; his voice, familiar though not yet placed in my memory, was loud, almost agitated.
"I must see Mr Domby at once!" this voice insisted.
"He cannot be disturbed, I'm sorry," my secretary, in turn, insisted. I was just beginning to recognize the voice when he cried out "He's my client!" Then and there I knew who it was, though I could hardly believe his being here.
"Excuse me," I told my workers, going at once to the landing. "Hello!" I called, hurrying down to greet none other than my newly acquired PR man, Shemp Dingle. "What brings you here?" I inquired.
"A checkered cab, I believe it was," came the cool reply.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"Just put it on your account," said Dingle, who then proceeded to explain his visit. "My computer came back on," he said. "I managed to glimpse the fifth item on your checklist before it went out again. Luckily my housekeeper was dusting my credenza so she saw it too. Then all went blank again. Thank goodness she was able to recall it long enough to write it down: otherwise, God only knows what state your career would be in. I of course did not choose to trust a word simply written on a scrap of paper so I photographed it, had it made into a disc which when inserted into your personal computer will reveal it to you; and have brought the disc with me. So let's not waste any further time. Take me to your computer."
I complied. This disc was inserted. And, lo and behold, there it was, the word Dingle had brought with him.
"Bookings," flashed across my screen.
"You see now why I took the trouble tracking you down," Dingle pointed out.
"How did you find me?"
"I initiated a search -"
"Of the telephone directory?"
He looked at me strangely. "Of the neighborhood."
"But how did you know which neighborhood?" I wondered.
"I searched them all. This is why it's taken me two whole days. This matter, as you see, could not wait. We must immediately begin booking you so as to keep you before the public. If so much as a day goes by without your appearance someplace, you run the risk of becoming a mere memory. This is by far and away the single most crucial item on the list!"
"If I may suggest: perhaps it should be listed first," I advised.
"I had thought of that myself," Dingle admitted. "I tried to effect just such an ordering of the program, but for some reason my computer kept kicking the term out until finally, coming to the number five position, it accepted it. So there it was, fifth on the list when it warranted being first."
"What brand is your computer?" I asked.
It's a Smithering B-5 Ultrexus. Accepts Cobol, Fortran, Pascal - all the major languages. Even has a Clip-Dip for Silicon chips. Little or no maintenance. Full 30-day warranty. Delivered, 4.7K ram. Can't be beat."
"Had much trouble with it?" I asked.
"When it works, it works like a charm," said Dingle. "I swear by it. One of the best ACCC ever made."
"And the bookings?"
"Without that computer I'm lost," Dingle informed me. "I'm going to have to scout around and see what I can come up with. I'd like you to accompany me - get a feel for the tour, see what it's like, maybe pick up a few pointers."
"Of course," I agreed. "Where to first?"
"Now there's a problem worthy of a Univac!" Dingle confessed. "Where do you suppose a writer would go? If only I could peek inside my B-5's memory bank, just for an instant, just long enough to get my camera in there, I could come up with some ten or twenty places we could check out. As it is...Do you have any ideas?"
"Well," I said after a moment's reflection, "if I may suggest it, what about libraries?"
"Oh no, oh no!" Dingle was quick to reply. "Libraries won't do at all - I never allow my authors anywhere near a library during their lifetimes! You start hanging about libraries, you'll soon get a reputation as a has-been. No one goes to libraries to read Best Sellers, they go to bookstores."
"How about bookstores then?" I suggested. Dingle thought, I could tell very carefully.
"Hmm," he mused. "Bookstores, eh. Bookstores. Bookstores. Well," he concluded finally, "in the absence of anything better, and until my computer can be repaired, bookstores it is. Which ones though, I wonder."
"There's one in the shopping mall, right near Metricula's. A chain store, I believe. Dalyrumple's. They have branches everywhere, if I'm not mistaken. It might be worth a try."
"Yes it might," Dingle agreed.
Momentarily we were off. The mall was slow this time of day, Dalyrumple's especially so - bad for business, perhaps, but very good for our purpose. We asked for the manager. A Miss Delia Washburn was summoned from her office in the stockroom.
"What can I order for you gentlemen?" she asked by way of greeting. She was an attractive businesswoman, in that special businesswomanish way.
"My client here, Mr Roland Domby," Dingle explained, "is an accomplished author of no small repute. He is soon to publish his masterpiece. We were wondering if you'd be so good as to let us begin our tour here. From there, we could make the circuit of all the DeliaWemple's -"
"Dalyrumple's," Miss Washburn corrected Dingle, who, I could tell, had been looking at her name tag and confused the store's name, in big letters, with it manager's name, below it in smaller letters.
"Yes. The entire circuit. Every store you have."
"By the way," I asked, "how many do you have?"
"Four hundred."
"That many?"
"And growing yearly. The era of the Ma and Pa Bookstore is long gone," Miss Washburn explained. "Ma and Pa, unfortunately, tried to cover all loses. We learned from their mistakes. Books which do not sell, and sell well, are not carried. Period. We are neither a lending library nor a charity; we run a business. Only the sellers interest us. And, yes, we do contract for Book Tours."
"You book them!" exclaimed Dingle with a great peal of laughter. The childlike simplicity of this brilliant man's sense of humor was most endearing.
"You might say that," Miss Washburn agreed. "In fact, you could not possibly have come here at a better time. It's as if fate itself had directed you to this particular place at this particular moment. Have you noticed how crowded it's gotten since you arrived?"
We looked around. Indeed, the business had picked up considerably. There must have been at least ten for every one customer who was here when we arrived.
"Big sale?" I asked.
"Oh no, something better - especially from your point of view," Miss Washburn explained. "A Book Tour. A very famous writer is scheduled to appear here almost any minute now. To autograph copies of his latest work. So, if you will, please stick around, get a feel for what it's like; and we can talk afterward. Oh, here he is now! Excuse me, I must go introduce him!"
Dear reader, as great as my pen has proven, it cannot begin to describe what just walked in. A veritable Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Thing, Frankenstein, Dracula, Wolfman, The Mummy, Darth Vader - all rolled into one. A living horror. A walking, talking (some even say writing!) Blob.
Miss Washburn took Its hand and led It to the center of the store (oh gullibility, oh innocence, they name is Woman!). They stopped at a huge pile of books atop a special counter. Luckily I had failed to notice this most tasteless display on my way in or else I would surely have grown nauseous. As I saw it now, the display counter was really a desk; behind it was a chair, into which the Blob plopped Itself, even before the introduction was made - as rude as It was untalented!
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming," Miss Washburn was announcing. "It is my great pleasure to introduce to you at this time, the one and only, Silly Jilly!"
(Only an ass would stand for such an introduction!)
"Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" came rapid fire from Its pretentious lips. This was Its trademark, It said it everywhere It went, on every talk show, at every political gathering, every sporting event, every grand opening: Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Everyone present (save those with good taste) laughed and applauded: I felt ill, and embarrassed for these poor people who, obviously, had never been exposed to great literature (not yet anyway). Worst of all, I had little choice but to remain and endure this hideous, contrived spectacle. After all, I had been invited by Miss Washburn to witness it, to get the feel for Book Tours (as if this were not more a Side-Show than a serious Book Tour!).
The horrible irony was, she might not take me seriously as an author unless I stayed to watch It clown around. (Life can be heartless sometimes, dear reader.) But I persevered, I endured, I managed to watch as one after another book - hardcover, no less! - was paid for and autographed. (These poor dear people, to be conned like that.) Suddenly it was over. The Creature with stringy orange hair was gone, leaving only a few unsold books as traces of Its scavenge. I heaved a great sigh of relief.
"Here: one for you - on the house!" announced Miss Washburn as she approached, holding out...one of those.
"Oh I really couldn't," I said, not wishing the filthy pulp anywhere near me.
"I insist. Your experience of the event won't be complete otherwise. Here, take it."
She handed me the book. What choice had I but to accept it? I thanked her, then we arranged for my own tour.
"Do you have a special trademark?" she inquired.
"No," I replied, "I'm just a simple artist. No gimmicks. Just talent."
"Well, that's okay, we might be able to get by," she admitted.
"Let's hope so," said Dingle. I said nothing.
On my coffee table is where it sat. I did not choose to taint my own work with too close association with such a book as this. I had meant to toss it right out, but so distraught was I by the experience that I simply sat it down upon arriving home and forgot about it: an ironic mistake, if ever there were one; for, later that evening, tired, thoroughly disgusted, I went to my living room, sat down on the sofa and picked up the first book I happened upon, hoping to forget my troubles with a well-written passage or two. Nor did I notice the jacket. Before I knew what I was doing, there I was reading...It!
I could have screamed...at what I saw. For there, before my very eyes, and just at that split-second when it dawned on me what I had picked up to read, were some of my very own ideas, some of my very own characters, even - dear God above! - some of my very own - and very best - passages! Leaping out at me.
"But this is not mine!" I cried. "Dear God, this is not mine! It's...It's...oh my God, it's it's! It's! Oh dear merciful heavens! My work, my jewels, my ouvres - stolen, captured, purloined, kidnapped, hijacked! By a hack! By a third rate hack! Oh, woe is me! Woe is me!"
But how? I wondered. How could he get them? How?
"Unless -"
Unless....
It is evermore the fate of great writers, in their zeal to transcribe as faithfully as possible their world, to end up with some or another passage of lesser artistic merit. Unavoidable is the inclusion of questionable material. This, as intimated, derives not from any lack or lapse of genius but from the nature of the world they inhabit. To be true to that world - as the Artist must - is necessarily to ring a few false notes upon the great shimmering melody we call Art: "false" not in the sense of untrue but in the sense of inartistic (for though all Art is Truth, not all Truth is Artsy). Some Truths (and by Truth, in this context, is meant Real Occurrences) do not lend themselves to Artistic treatment and can either be edited out or else left in at peril to the whole structure. I chose the latter course. My book is, I believe, of sufficient worth and merit to weather the storm. (In fact, I liken my plot to a skyscraper, built to withstand tremors up to and including 3.5 on the Richter Scale; beyond that, I would set my pen down, abandon my manuscript, and run. Above all, I am committed to the Eternal Axioms and Principles of Realism. This chapter, otherwise an embarrassment, is my testament to that commitment.)
Needless to say, I was most distressed upon discovering my best passages, ideas and chapters tucked away inside that hideous prison between two covers. "Songs of the Silly" it was called (I leave to the reader to evaluate so slip-shod a title). More than ever were my worst suspicions becoming realized; it seemed clear to me that someone - right here, within my very walls - was not only stealing my work, piecemeal; but, almost as bad, undermining Art itself through the sabotage. Putting my ideas into the hands of a known megalomaniac could only serve to obliterate the fine distinction between Art and trash. Yet the damage - both to my reputation and to Art - had already been done; all I could do now was unearth the culprit or culprits.
I decided the best defense was a good offense. I would take the bull by the horns. I would strike while the iron was, if not hot, at least handy, and of manageable proportions. I called a general meeting.
"There are several things I wish to get straightened out," I began.
"Will the little matter of air conditioning be one of them?" someone asked.
"As you say," I replied coldly, "it is a little matter, of almost no consequence. It will take care of itself once the summer is over, I suspect. Right now I have a matter of far greater import to discuss. It appears that my ideas, my characterizations, even some of my very passages have been stolen and have turned up, of all places, inside another writer's novel. Realism, in a word, is not big enough for two portrayals of the same exact reality! Each must be unique, original, imaginative -"
I was most rudely interrupted.
"Bullshit!" a voice cried out.
"Who dares address me thusly?" I demanded to know.
From out of the crowd stepped...of all people...my gardener: Armisted G. P. Z. Newsworthy. "I address you thusly," he informed me in an arrogant voice. "And furthermore," he continued on, "I take strong exception to your constant use of Realism as your point of reference, if not to say your God. Or no, on second thought, as a 'Realist,' character must necessarily be your God; since the overwrought and overbloated and overdone emphasis on minute detail is nothing whatsoever to hold a reader's interest without the pseudo-artistry of exposing the inside of people's brains! You, Mr Realist, are nothing but a pompous mortician prettyfying decay with your silly objectification of every trivial detail of every character's behavior, motives and reactions. You are to Art what a capitalist entrepreneur is to society! For you both seek to parcel out as much of it as you can for your own private bailiwick! And may the total of it be damned for all you care just so long as you make your silly little mark upon it and gobble up your portion! Reality is not yours to place inside a manuscript - I almost agree with Plato that all art should be banned! And, please note, when I speak 'art,' I speak it with a small 'a' as it should be spoken! I have watched - from your infernal 'objective' distance, since you would have no part of me in your 'masterpiece'! - while you beat and twisted and poked at and in every conceivable way distorted any sensible concept of art to fit your tiny abysmal specifications! So too have I suffered your pettiness, your meanness of spirit, your silly vanities, your arrogant ignorances - suffered in silence because I took it - I have always taken it - as my lot in life to keep silent, to merely observe, to stand on the sidelines while others exploited - yes, exploited! - me! You have humiliated me with your absurd garden full of carrots, which I faithfully tended while you dined on frills and hot airs! You have made us share quarters as if we were a herd of cattle while you piddled around in fully one-half the space we must all share, pretending to be achieving a greatness which was so far beyond our meager capacities that all your selfish greed was automatically justified! Well, it is not justified, any more than the nonsense all the aristocrats who ever lived play at is or was ever able to justify their expropriation of nine-tenths of this world's riches to themselves! Such obscenity can never be justified, say whatever you will, call me any low and base name you care to invent, even banish me, or torture or even kill me - you still cannot dispute the truth of what I say! You work us like dogs, you dictate our every move, watch our comings and goings as if we were your prisoners, keep us cold - cold, freezing cold! - in winter, hot - as hot as if we were in a sweat shop! - in summer! And all so that one day you may take every trace of the wealth, the glory, the honor, the love our effort engenders, leaving us with nothing but more empty promises, and the crumbs off your table and, oh yes, and the stench of decayed carrots from the garden you conned us into planting so you could save on your responsibility to feed us - a responsibility you willingly assumed along with the responsibility to clothe and to shelter us when you made us dependent upon you for the things we need to survive - things which you removed from general circulation, insuring we would have to come to you for them! Like every author who has ever lived, your characters end up with nothing, while you have it all. So too with every ruler who ever was: capitalist, monarchist, communist or what-not. But since it is the capitalist you most nearly resemble, it is to him I address myself. And let me tell you - let me be first to tell you: your system, like your art, is dying. It started dying the moment it stopped filling needs and started creating them! You, with your computers, your programs, your silicon chips - for which you must think up silliness to put them to use - you are as surely an anachronism as if you were touting the virtues of the horse and buggy! The future will need neither your computers nor your copy-cat art."
Perceiving a break in his flow of speech, I ordered him out of my house. Had I know it would come to such a tasteless, disturbing tirade as this, I would never have allowed him in in the first place.
"I'm not finished!" he insisted.
"Sorry old bean, but you are!" exclaimed my most worthy foreman, the wonderful Epsom Salts, in a voice of authority; whereupon he went over and, taking Newsworthy by the shirt collar, forcibly evicted him from my peaceful home (heretofore peaceful, anyway). I thanked Epsom for his assistance and, apologizing to the others, I returned to my quarters, in truth a bit shaken by the experience.
It was, in retrospect, a bit harsh, Epson's treatment of the mad radical. But, as the gentle reader, I'm sure, well knows, the voice of dissension must be silenced right at the start. We owe it to our fellow citizens.
I find I owe my good, and most patient, readers an apology, for, as I examined my manuscript for any such lapses of genius as I might encounter (there were very few), I realized that the foregoing chapter was not only an example of tasteless prose, it was entirely out of character as well. It was intentionally left in, and unedited, however, to show would-be writers what can happen when too scrupulous an attention to detail obscures the essential unsuitability, if not to say worthiness, of a given passage. Naturally, the vast majority of my readers, having no inclination to become writers, will not entirely benefit from the lesson, having no need of it; to those, I offer my condolences for having to endure such a passage, not to mention my thanks for their having stuck by me through it all. I assure you, dear readers, I will not so tax your sensibilities like that again. I am an Author, not a tractarian; my words artistic, not polemical. Of that you may be sure. One does not need a social conscience to write a novel nearly as much as he needs a sense of decorum. I have not forgotten this, the prime dictum of modern literature.
Needless to say, I was quite upset by my gardener's senseless outburst. When I retired to my room, I found myself unable to concentrate on my work; even proofreading seemed an impossible task. So I set my work aside. Wondering what to do, alone in my study, the earliest twinges of a headache creeping up the back of my neck, my secretary entered. I heard her soft tap upon my door, but thought perhaps it was my foreman coming to discuss the incident. Actually I was glad it was not Epsom, as I really did not wish the incident brought up. She must have seen me rubbing the back of my neck, for, momentarily, and without a word, she was in back of my chair reaching down to massage my shoulders.
"Feel better now?" she asked after several minutes worth of massage.
"Much better," I replied. "My headache is completely gone. I don't how to thank you."
"You could take me to the movies," she suggested.
"Hmm," I mused, "not a bad idea. Let's do. Surely they'll have something worthwhile playing at the Mall. We'll have to make it 'Dutch Treat,' what with my budget so tight, payroll coming up, and so on. Do you mind?"
"No, I don't mind if you don't," she agreed.
We taxied to the Mall. On the way, my secretary suggested my getting an automobile.
"It's more private," she explained, "going out of an evening." I told her I had in fact often considered that very thing, and for that very reason. I explained how I had been offered an auto loan.
"They're hard to come by," she observed. To this I waxed philosophical.
"Perhaps those who cannot get them are really better off without cars," I said. "After all, if you don't have much of an income, you probably have a like intelligence, and might well be unfit to drive. All men are not created equal. Bankers seem to understand this instinctively."
My secretary then told me about some distant relations of hers who, she insisted, were both very poor and very intelligent. I do not see it as my duty to challenge every false notion I encounter (and this one, I daresay, was patently false); so I made no comment.
At the Mall, we chose from among six feature films. And, of all things, who should come in, just as the movie was starting, and sit beside us but my Public Relations man, Shemp Dingle! After the movie, the three of us went to an ice cream parlor in the Mall for a snack.
"What will you have?" I asked my guests.
"Mint chocolate chip, one scoop," said my secretary.
"And you?" I asked Dingle.
"Chittenberry, one half a scoop," he replied.
"Ain't no chittenberry," the clerk informed me, "and ain't no half a scoop either!"
"This is what I half feared," Dingle said when he heard. "It's what I get for not programming my computer to store foodstuffs. I don't know what kind of ice cream I like. I thought I had it straight. It was something like chittenberry."
"Strawberry?" I suggested.
"No, no."
"Raspberry?" my secretary suggested.
"Not it either."
"Why don't you just settle for chocolate?" asked the clerk, spooning a dishful. Dingle examined it, tasted it.
"By God, this is it!" he declared.
As we ate, we discussed the movie. We all agreed it was lacking.
"Ha!" said Dingle. "You don't know the half of it! The novel upon which it was based: most poorly conceived work of art of the 20th Century!"
"Really?" I asked. "That bad?"
"My God, man," exclaimed Dingle, "its author had no more notion of artistic sensitivity than a tadpole! Let the movie rights get clean away from him!"
"No!"
"Yes! He didn't get one penny - not one penny! The critics killed him. Couldn't pay his rent. Had to write, print and peddle everything else he ever wrote. Who'd take him seriously after that fiasco? And at the very same time, Domby, a lesser known - a lesser known - author engineered one of the great coups in the history of art! Managed to get two million - two million! - for a novel he hadn't even written yet! Just goes to show you, Domby: PR. That's the way art is spelled in these parts. With a great big P and a great big R."
"PR, eh?" I asked, but in a knowing tone of voice. Dingle nodded.
We were all surprised, our ice cream finished and ourselves ready to leave, when a customer came in carrying an umbrella; the umbrella was dripping wet.
"Raining?" I inquired.
"Cats and dogs!" the man informed me. This was both bad and good news for me: bad, for the obvious reason; good, because finally my gully would at last have an opportunity to prove itself. I was most eager to get home. My friend Shemp Dingle obliged by driving us. The moment we neared my front lawn, I could see what had happened. The gully was filled to capacity with rain water, runoff which would otherwise have waterlogged my entire lawn. I was ecstatic. The genius of Zimrod Zardon, engineer par excellence, was vindicated (not that I ever doubted it). As badly as it was raining, I trudged through my front lawn - in fact, I walked all the way around the house. Dry as a bone! Not a drop of mud anywhere. The drainage could not have been better.
As I have always maintained, dear reader: Genius will out. Depend on it.
Nature is a most - a most - vindictive sort of creature, if you ask me. How else am I to account for it? If not for revenge, then why did she put such a damper on my little celebration? The great Zardon's gully worked magnificently to thwart the rain; clearly, it would seem, in order to get even, I was made to suffer the brunt of her malice. No sooner did I get inside and get my wet clothes changed than I came down with a most dreadful head cold! With every sneeze, I could almost hear old Mother Nature outside my house snickering away. Fortunately, I felt a little better by morning; but the constant sniffles, the sneezes, the wheezes, the bloated sensation in my head - the enormous strain of having been so mercilessly victimized by nature rendered me unable to work with any special vigor. My heart just wasn't in it. Nevertheless, trooper that I am, I plugged away, managing somehow to get in several excellent paragraphs plus a few charming asides. To be sure, my characters' negative sides were most noticeable; but at least a good day's work got done.
Even tragedy has its rewards. Had I not been so desperately ill, I might never have descended to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and an aspirin: I do not believe, as a rule, in medicines of any description, nor does my constitution well tolerate the ascorbic acid in fruit juices very well. I was not really aware of that fact until I telephoned my good friend Kretchner of the Links of Life Health Foods Store to seek advice on my condition.
"Have you catarrh?" he inquired.
"I believe so," I replied.
"Vitamin A," he advised. "And are your bowels a bit loose?"
An embarrassing question, to be sure, but I endeavored to speak truthfully. "A bit," I said.
"No Vitamin C - no ascorbic acid - no fruit juices. I recommend half a pint of Lobelia, a little Golden Seal, mix in a dash - just a dash - of Coltsfoot. Perhaps some Horehound if you've a cough. Maybe some Hyssop if you dare. But absolutely no C - and stay off your feet if you get pins and needles - could mean an excess of uric acid. If you could stand it, I might recommend a mild alkali. And some vegetarian broth. If you have whiskey, resist it. But if you can't resist, drink it straight, no mixing. And go light on the sex for a few weeks - stay away from 8th Avenue whatever you do!"
Very good advice. I felt better just hearing it. If not for my impulse to phone Kretchner, I might have taken the orange juice - I had it poured already. I simply put it back and took the aspirin with water. Again, I stress my extreme good fortune; my timing could not have been better. For no sooner had I taken two aspirin and started from the kitchen than I saw one of my characters look all around, very slyly (I could not be seen from where I was), and head for the front door. Opening it, this person went out. And from the soft way the door was closed, from the soft sounding footsteps outside (which, hastening to the door, I heard), from the speed of the getaway, I knew that at last the identify of whoever had been sneaking out was revealed.
How many nights had I been taxied to my front door just to see it shut almost in my face? How many times had I been on my way out only to witness someone passing unseen ahead of me? How many times had I called a meeting hoping to discover who was absent only to have my plan thwarted by some senseless altercation? And now, I knew. I waited for the return. I could afford to wait, I now held all the cards again. I would sit and await the culprit's return. The time was broken by a telephone call.
"Kretchner here," came the loud, clear voice. "I know we've just talked, but I couldn't get to sleep, something kept bothering me; finally I figured what it was. I had failed you. Please forgive me, but I forgot to ask if you had any Ginseng. Have you?"
"I'm not sure," I replied. "Hold on and I'll check." I went to the cupboard where I kept my health foods. Ah yes, there it was! "I do have it," I informed Kretchner.
"Ah, thank God!" he exclaimed. "It isn't Siberian, I hope."
"Siberia?"
"Check the label."
"I checked. "Yes, it is Siberian," I informed him.
"Get rid of that Commie stuff!" he ordered. "The quicker the better! And get yourself some Korean Ginseng. Make sure it's from the South though. Only from the South. Make sure the label specifies Republic of South Korea. Got that?"
"Yes, I've got it."
"Good. Now I can rest easy." He yawned. "I'm about to fall asleep already. Oh, by the way, where did you get that Commie stuff anyway?"
"From you," I replied, a little fearful lest my answer interfere with his sleep.
"Hmm," He considered the matter. "Must have been planted, probably by Dixie."
"Dixie?"
"Dixie Wicks. Wholesales meat and potatoes. Hates health foods. She's sworn to put me out of business. Says my shop's an ideal location for a hash house. Yeah, probably her. Thank God for customers like you who perceive the dangers an honest retailer faces today." There was a moment of silence. "Sorry," said Kretchner, "must have dozed off. Better be going. Catch you again."
Again, the timing could not have been better, for no sooner had I hung up than I heard the front door opening, the same soft opening which had so often haunted me and which, now, I proposed to expose. I went to the living room, just in time to encounter the culprit heading for the characters' quarters.
"Why if it isn't Miss Smith," I announced. She started.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, quickly recapturing her composure. She was a slick one alright.
"So," I thought, "my leading lady a spy, a turncoat, a pirate, a conspirator. Styreen Smith: you can add literary piracy to your list of other crimes: the shoplifting, the absconsion with Jesus' statue, the truancy, the running away from the convent, the vagrancy - and God knows what else." I just shook my head.
"So," I said, "it's you who have been sneaking out of here almost nightly."
"Oh no, I wasn't out - we aren't allowed out. I was just on my way to the kitchen," she tried to maintain.
"By way of the front door?" I asked.
"I thought I had heard a tap at the door," she insisted. "I went to see who it was."
"And it took you two hours to see if anyone was there?"
"Two hours?"
"I saw you leave, two hours ago."
"I may have been walking around outside a little, perhaps, but I had no idea it was that long, I'm sure."
What a bold faced lie. "And the other times?" I asked. "Were you also walking around outside?"
"I haven't been out before - this is the first time," she said.
"I know it was you," I said definitively. "I know it was you. Sounds don't lie. The quality of an opening or a closing of the door doesn't lie. Nor do footsteps lie. It was you alright. It was you."
"I had to," she finally confessed. "Oh Mr Domby, I had to - I had to! I had to sneak out. I had to. I couldn't tell you where I was going. You see, I...oh Mr Domby...I have a baby. I couldn't tell you. I need this job, Mr Domby. I need it. Yet you're so...you know...so proper...so moral - as upright as you are brilliant. It's rare, you know, to find both genius and strength of character in the same individual."
"I know it is," I said. Now here's a sensible girl, I thought.
"That's why I was so afraid to have you find out. I wouldn't have gone out - I wouldn't have jeopardized my job - except my baby's been so sick, so very sick, so deathly sick, and for such a long time. I've been so frightened. I couldn't leave him there all by himself, not when he was so dreadfully ill, could I? I had to go see him. It made his little eyes light up every time he'd see me. He'd clap his little hands, and we'd play, and he'd forget all about the terrible sickness slowly sapping away his strength."
"What's the matter with him?" I asked.
"The matter?"
"His illness."
"Oh, yes, his illness. It's...well, it's sort of like...you know...one of those childhood illnesses."
"Like diphtheria, you mean?"
"Oh yes, Mr Domby, just like it, only worse because it's all over him."
"Chicken pox?"
"Only worse," Stryeen replied. The poor girl was so distraught she did not even seem to know exactly what was wrong with her child.
"It seems my mother once told me I had thrush as an infant, in the hospital, right after I was born. An epidemic, she said. That sounds like it, Mr Domby - exactly like it! It was an epidemic - everyone had it. It's just a miracle I didn't get it too. He was born with it, and it won't go away!"
The poor frantic girl, thinking a child could be born with thrush. "It seems to me my mother said they used Gentian Violet."
"Was she a nurse?"
"Not my mother - but this Violet was."
"No, no. Gentian Violet is a medicine," I explained.
"That's the one - that's the one! I was looking all over town for it! That's why I was gone so long! Gentian Violet. In a little purple bottle, I think. I looked everywhere, Mr Domby, but couldn't find it! Oh, whatever am I to do, Mr Domby? Whatever am I to do?"
"Have no fear," I assured her. "I'll go myself - right now, while the drug stores are still open, and get you some."
"Oh thank you, thank you!" she exclaimed and hurried off to her quarters.
I had not intended to go out until recovering a little from my illness; I naturally feared a set back, or even pneumonia. But I had promised; and I did not want Styreen going back out; besides, this would give me a chance to get some Korean Ginseng - assuming, of course, the drug store had it.
"To the mall please," I directed my taxi driver.
"Smart move, Mack," the driver said, once again addressing me in this familiar manner. I was almost coming to regard it as a term of endearment. Why not? I'd provided no small share of their income of late!
"Big sidewalk sale," the driver went on to explain.
"But it's all indoors," I reminded him. He just laughed. When I arrived, I understood why; for, indeed, it was as close to a sidewalk sale as anyone could expect. Every business there had moved, I would estimate, a third of its goods out of the store into the promenade. As it was getting late, some of the goods were being returned. At a chance encounter with a shopper, whom I almost ran into, I couldn't resist inquiring what the purpose of all this was.
"Ah," she said, "the feel of the great outdoors! That's what brings me to these sidewalk sales."
"But we're not outdoors," I observed.
"Relative to inside the stores we are," she replied and hurried off.
It was slow going avoiding both the shoppers and the goods sitting like obstacles on a course, but I finally made it to the Drug 'N Other, at the far end of the mall. They too had a big sale, but owing to the nature of the place, had left their wares indoors.
"Excuse me, Miss," I interrupted a young lady who was busy pricing merchandise and stocking shelves, "could you help me?"
"Oh yes," she replied politely. "Let me first finish putting out the chips and pretzels. We just got them in. I haven't even gotten to the non-pareils yet! There, all done. Now then, you probably don't see the Horseman of Truth. Everybody's been asking about it. We sold out almost the minute we opened this morning. I can give you a rain check, though, if you like. It'll guarantee you get it at sale price."
"Horseman of Truth?" I asked.
"The video game," the salesclerk explained.
"Oh," I said. "Actually, that's not what I'm here for. I need some Gentian Violet for a sick child - he has Thrush."
"We have baby clothes, if you need any. And P&T rattles."
"No, no baby clothes, just the Gentian Violet," I said.
"We have a great buy on shampoo: with or without egg. Super duper protein with or without herbal mists. Your second bottle is only one cent when you buy the first."
"No, no shampoo. Tell me, miss, is the pharmacist here?" I asked.
"Oh, I see, you have a prescription. Wait just a moment, I'll get him."
Momentarily, the pharmacist appeared, a tall, very grave looking man wearing a blue smock and black trousers. He stretched out his hand, I presumed, for my prescription.
"Actually," I explained, "I'd like some Gentian Violet."
"That's not a controlled substance," he said, turned, and walked away. I had no choice but to approach the salesgirl again.
"Perhaps it's on one of these shelves," I mused, loud enough to get her attention.
"You know," she said, "we have the lowest prices on laxatives anywhere."
"No, no laxatives," I replied.
"Our cold tablets are tamper resistant."
"Hmm, I could use some aspirin. Oh, I almost forgot, Korean Ginseng too!"
"Oh, we only carry the Siberian, I'm afraid. But we do have transistor radios made in Korea. Shall I show you one?"
"No, no transistors. Let me get the aspirin, and, if you will, have a look for the Gentian Violet."
"Oh, sir, we don't carry anything like that. We have gotten in our Labor Day candies though. With or without nuts. Dark or milk chocolate. And we have film. And lots of magazines.."
"No, no film. No magazines. No candy."
"Oh, I almost forgot: we do have scented candles. I believe we have Violet, since that's what you like. And we have toilet paper on sale."
"Toilet paper?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. Two-ply. In colors. But not purple. Ten roll packs."
I reflected a moment. "How much?"
"Normally $2.98, now $2.27. The crushably soft tissue."
"We do go through toilet paper like it's going out of style," I said.
"Oh, it's not, sir!" she assured me.
"I'd better take ten rolls. No, make that twenty."
"We have a special on stomach remedies."
I no sooner got out of the Drugs 'N Other than I was accosted by, of all the incredible things - and here, of all places, where you could purchase anything from A to Z - by a peddler!
"Pssst!" he called, motioning me with his hand over to a remote corner where there was a potted plant. Reluctantly, I followed. "I got just what you need, right here," he hawked once we were safely out of sight of the drug store. "Gentian Violet. I overheard you. It's something I always carry a spare of. You don't want to be without it."
He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small vial. All manner of small bottles rattled while he searched for it; evidently he knew it by its shape, for when he showed me, the vial was labeled "Gentian Violet." I asked him how much it cost. He said $2.50. I paid it: I'd come for Gentian Violet, now I had it. I could return in triumph.
I decided, however, before summoning a taxi, to browse a bit in the bookstore. I had not been in there, or in any bookstore, since my harrowing experience. I had almost developed a phobia where such places were concerned. But, since I am an Author, and as such, have a natural affinity for bookstores, I summoned my courage and entered. It's both good and bad that I did, dear reader. My worst fears were realized. But so were my best hopes.
Such is the power of honest, accurate reporting that when even the most incredible happening is offered, it too bears the stamp of truth. It's good that my credibility rests on so firm a foundation; otherwise, my precious and wonderful readers, you would have difficulty believing what I am about to relate.
Out of the corner of one eye, something caught my attention. I had meant simply to browse; being an Author of quality fiction, however, my steps quite naturally took me first to the Best Sellers. I was doubly surprised for, not only had the tenth rate work of a tenth rate hack become, almost overnight, a Best Seller, it was now joined by a companion piece! Yet a second novel bearing the insignia of the notorious Silly Jilly sat in the shelf of honor, the place reserved only for Best Sellers. I nearly cried to think the public - the precious, innocent, most generously naive public - had been conned, not once but twice; and in so short a space of time. For, as heaven is my witness, there it was, another novel penned by It of the stringy orange hair. Not that it surprised me to see another book brought out so rapidly; I would imagine, when taste, quality, profundity, subtlety are removed from fiction and the pilfered ideas of other writers substituted, one could crank out a new novel every other day. Doubtless Silly Jilly will produce a quarter million if he survives long enough.
"To think," I moaned, "that Literature has come to this. Oh, dear heaven, is there no place for greatness anymore?"
I turned my back to go; then something told me: stay. Look. Take it up. Read. Read. Read. Surely, I am no pervert, to read this trash! I objected. But it drove me back to the shelf, this something which had planted in my brain an image, and a thought: the image, of Silly Jilly standing on a stack of stolen books; the thought, that my ideas were being crushed by the weight. Bracing myself for the assault upon my sensibilities, I took up the book. Opening it at random, I was startled to discover my very own material leaping out at me. My plot, my characters, my themes, my unifying concepts - all seemed to have come together in this one single passage. How bitter, how bitter, to see my genius reduced to this low level. What a farce! The horror of it nearly made me run wildly from the store screaming; but I took a deep breath. With my head reeling, I continued reading. Here and there, at random. Then more deliberately, the story slowly piecing itself together. And, as it did, a pattern emerged - no, a finger! And it pointed; squarely it pointed. To the culprits. To those who had robbed me. The conspirators, the saboteurs: they were revealed...by their characterizations. Silly Jilly's second novel might just as well have been an all points bulletin, so clearly were the descriptions of the spies rendered. From that moment I knew who my betrayers were. My work, passed into rival hands: industrial espionage, to give it its right name. My characters, some of them: servants of two masters. My genius, compromised: in two places at once, one a mere shadow of its true stature.
I hurried home.
"You look like you seen a ghost there, Mack," observed the taxi driver.
"I just may very well have," I replied.
"Yeah? One of them 'porter guys? the ones that throw tables at you? Ha! I'll be damned. Satan, get thee gone! You ought to report it to the Ghost Busters. What they do is tell all kinds of jokes and make fun of 'em when they see 'em. Works every time."
"I don't think my ghost will so easily go away," I said. "It seems to thrive on jokes - sick jokes!"
"Won't hurt to give it a shot," my driver noted. Would that I could give this "ghost" a shot! Or impale it on some very well deserved critical barbs! Ha! What a farce!
I debated, both in the taxi and, upon arriving home, in my study, whether to confront the conspirators here and now or await a more opportune moment. I was impatient to get them out of my house; yet, being an artist, my sense of decorum and timing were impeccable, too much so to permit my running downstairs this very instant to accuse my enemies. I decided to wait, and, once again, fate was with me for, upon retiring for the night, I barely dozed off when noises from outside disturbed me. Rushing to the window, I peeked out and, as I did, I caught a glimpse of four persons stalking away. Four of my characters, two of whom I immediately recognized beneath the full moon as two of the ones who had betrayed me.
"So," I thought, "setting out to do some more mischief, are you? Well, this time I'll see for myself. With my own eyes I'll catch you red-handed, you villains!" Quickly I got dressed, silently I descended the stairs and was out the door; without detection I was soon fast upon their heels, trailing them. They were, of course, on foot. They walked a good ways before finally coming to a deserted alley just on the outskirts of town, a brown alley, a layer of intrigue fixed between high walls of faded brick, poorly lighted. They stood in the mouth of this alley, waiting. Presently a little sports car drove up, and out stepped...
...who, of all people, should step out but...
...from this tiny car came...
- It! -
Orange stringy hair bouncing upon Its ears as It moved, a clownish, ghoulish thing cutting through the pretty glow of moon toward where Its henchmen awaited. Were I not well situated, I would have feared for my safety, such was the horror the meeting I witnessed engendered. I could hear nothing distinct, all noises blended into one voice, all words into a hum, like that of a beehive. I did, however, catch sight of something which, had I not already discovered the culprits analytically, would have given them away for sure. A package of papers changed hands, passing from the ringleader into Silly Jilly's greedy grasp. I recognized, if not the content, then at least the paper itself. It was mine, a fine brand of bond, 25 pound, linen fiber, with a crest for its watermark. I'd know it anywhere, under any light, in anybody's hands. Here, before me, was proof positive. My works, even as I watched, were being handed over to my arch enemy.
Oh cruel piracy! That my genius should pass into hands so ignoble. It was all I could do to keep from rushing upon the plagiarists to rescue my work; but I feared for my safety. Besides, I still intended to unmask the villains in my own good time.
Patiently I waited till the unholy transaction was completed, till my characters retreated, till it was safe for me to return home.
Where's the rain when you really need it? With its sorrowful rhythm it taps out on windows, on your rooftop, on garbage cans outside, on the pavement. Where is it? Who can tell me that? Where are all my ghosts, when questions are being put to no one else, for no one else is there? Where are they? My "porter guys." Or were they all a fantasy, a manifestation of somebody's overworked imagination? Is there no reply to honest questionings? Only to silly ones?
How could they do it to me, betray me like that? My characters. After I took them in, fed them, clothed them, gave them work, had all manner of wonderful things built for them. How could they do it?"
I sat before my desk all day. What else was there before me but work, work, and more work? So much to decide, so much truth to get down before it retreated. Truth is like lightening, and just as hard to catch, and just as fearsome. Even the best of us dodge it if we can, preferring the thunder, the din and noise - the great clamor - of it. It is jagged, and heated for that split second, higher than the sun. We shy away from those who have actually been struck by its passage through our realm. They seem to us peculiar, a bit crazy perhaps, who have touched even its edges. There are different truths, as many different as there are stages in man's evolution. At any one time, one or more descend; we witness it, we listen hard for the after clap, we extract some infinitely tiny portion of its essence, as many of us who were there. We replay it, as if our beings were cassette tapes; but it is full of static, and often a shrill squeak develops as if a great strain were needed to pull it along, to wind it up, to play it for others. The pure play, undiluted by background noise, never gets heard except in the original. Yet we each attempt to work it through our special field of endeavor, thinking we'll get it perfect. So many manifestations of one single truth; none of them anything more than a child's rendering.
My desk is (I may have mentioned) of cherry. Each drawer has brass handles, burnished slightly. The top overhangs. I have so much space to work in. Sometimes it frightens me. What if the work produced at my desk is smaller than the surface it sits on?
Why can't workers be content simply to work? Why the intrigue? What have I done to deserve it? I'm only trying to do what's best. I realize they can never aspire to as much as I can - but who's fault is that? Were they not given the same advantages as I? Did we not all begin equally? Am I to be plagued forever simply because I have made more of the opportunities presented me? It's no easy job developing one's talent. Organizing. Arranging to have my work published. Planning my public relations campaign. It all takes time, and oh so careful attention to every little detail. An artist must be an economist, an accountant, a banker, a businessman, an entrepreneur, and even a bit of a con-man, if he's to succeed. Who's fault is that? Certainly not mine. It's the way of the world. There's nothing to be done but accept it. We would all be paragons of virtue, of honesty, of integrity, of artistry...if we but could.
From my desk drawer, the big center drawer, I withdrew my diploma, the one certifying me an Author.
"Remember this," I told myself. "Always remember this. It makes you special. You have a lot to live up to, a great responsibility to all those who have gone before you. Do not let them down. Do not let this small setback set you back. Persevere. Keep on. Create. Write. Succeed. You owe it to the great art you were born to be part of. Always remember."
I replaced my diploma, took up my pen, and resumed my work. The questions I asked in a fit of despair I put away. I would never need these again. I am an artist.
My door opened, soft footsteps approached. Dearest reader, I am discreet if I am anything. Before I realized what was happening, a pair of gentle hands were upon the nape of my neck, caressing away the cares of this long, hard day. Not a word was spoken. My writing continued a moment more, though the action at my neck sent slight quivers through my hand, producing little wavy squiggles upon the page, which, later, I had trouble deciphering. Something told me to stop what I was doing. Was it the demons returned? I felt my hands reaching up to take hold of those which soothed my aching neck. Surely it was the demons - but no, it could not have been; or if it was, they had abandoned my pen, for it spoke no unkind words.
A moment passed. I sensed a strength in my arms pulling those caressing hands to the side. (Actually, one hand had to be lifted over my head.) As I brought them around, I saw for the first time who it was had stolen upon me (not but what I already knew). It was my secretary. I looked into her eyes, she into mine. We smiled underneath our features. I arose from my desk, turned, stood face to face with her. The walls of my study are beige. How lovely she looked against such a field. Slowly I drew her near. The gleam of her eyes met that of mine. A golden glow the lamp had introduced between us was eclipsed. Still we spoke nothing. Our lips met. We both, I think, tried a spectrum of smiles till one of mine and one of hers coincided perfectly.
Beige walls faded to pale blue. A door was shut behind us. In front of us, dark blue as of a manuscript's cover. Begging to be opened. A sheaf of pages rolled back. Soft sheets within awaiting. Put down your thoughts, record your feelings, mark in flesh your desires. Let the writing begin.
And begin it did. A work of art, created from the sweat and sinew of separate forces coming together. Unnamed. A mix of sea and sky and earth and fire. And, after such labor, rest. Weary, weary sleep: may all works be so spared critical appraisal.
The golden vermillion tomorrowed sun did rise. Its jeweled rays verily split the fortress walls of my house, seeking admittance to my domain. Lo! A beam of heaven - how it doth penetrate my very heart, as though I be a sacrificial victim before this mighty Ra foraging the morning dew-clad earth. I leapt from my bed on faerie wings to witness the returned day. I flew to my window - oh wondrous glassen membrane! oh divined sheath unveiling infinity! oh happy osmosis, cosmos and me, each other see, through thee! Pray - oh pray - this universe is upon us in the here and now!
I glanced from my window - oh sandstone jewelry raised as I might hold before me a mirror! Down below, an eternity of seas and winds washing, weaving against my ground - behold: a sparkle! A dew drop, vanishing, reveals yet another layer of sparkle. My lawn round about my house, how it doth sparkle back the sparkle spray of morning sun ray. Oh, divinity! oh, firefly soil! oh, thou ground of mine! What I would give for thee!
And as I watched the birth of creation, soft steps did spring like elven hooves from my bed and out my room. I turned. She was gone. Oh, buoyant departure! Oh -
I heard below a clangity-clang-clang ring. Hark! Someone beckons! From a million miles away, in a fantasy land, a call comes into my home. Ring-a-ling. Ding-a-ling-ling-ling. Oh, bellious bellow below, how rich though art! How -
"A tap at my door. Tappity-tap-tap-tap! Hark, who goes?
"For you, old bean," came the beckon.
Into my silken robe I poured and on tippie-toes descended my grasseus stairs. Hello-hello-hello!
"Hello," I announced, pronounced, my existence.
"Hokum-Poicus here," came the reply. "I just want to be first to congratulate you."
"Why, thank you," I replied, hoping my hesitancy might prompt an explanation. What was I being congratulated for, I wondered, but did not wish to come right out and ask.
"I knew, Domby, I just knew, if you ever once put Rodon stock on the market, it'd take off like a rocket! Like yourself - and, I might add, like the entire financial world - I've been watching it, ever since it appeared last week. I realize, as your banker, you felt it inappropriate - even contrary to SEC regulations - to advise me you were getting ready to market your stock. I don't fault you, Domby, not for that I don't. Discretion is the soul of experience. Nonetheless, truthfully, I wouldn't have objected to just ever so slight a tip regarding your strategy. Not that I'm faulting you, I've already made a small killing on what I bought the first day I noticed your name on the Stock Exchange. I know a business giant when I see one Domby!"
"Horace," I interrupted to remind him, "it takes one to know one."
"Damn if that's not what I always say. I tell you...just...just hold a moment there Domby. I'll be right with you. Madeline!" I heard him call. A moment later he was back on the line. "Okay, we've got a conference call here. Domby, Madeline: you're both connected. Madeline, I want you to tell Domby here what it is I always say."
"What's good for the goose is good for the gander?" speculated Madeline.
"No, no, no, no, that's not it," replied the banker.
"All that glitters is not gold?"
"Says who, Madeline? Try again."
Finally she got it. "What'd I tell you Domby? Huh? Am I on top of things or am I? Huh? Huh?"
"I'd say you're right on top of things," I complimented him. "A real go getter."
"Domby, it takes one to know one! Talk to you later - got to go count the money I made off your stock. See you later."
We hung up.
"Hot damn!" I cried. I must have leaped ten feet in the air. "Hot damn! Hoooot damn! Woo-wee! Hot damn! Me on the Stock Exchange! The dream of a lifetime! The gift of gifts! That keeps on giving! The good and the better and the best and the great and the greater and the greatest all rolled up in one! Hot damn!"
I began singing, actually dancing around the room. "I got sto-ock, I got sto-ock, I got sto-ock, who could ask for anything more!!!!!" Again and again I sang it. I danced up a storm, kicked up my heels, spread my wings, done a thousand things! 'Cause I got stock!
"But how?" I wondered. "I don't recall issuing any. Maybe it's just automatic. Maybe once you incorporate, the stock just magically appears. I mean, who ever heard of a corporation that didn't have stock? It's just...a part of doing business. Stocks, dividends, share-holders: that's what it means to be incorporated."
I felt...oh God, I felt on top of the world, as if I could tackle anything. No obstacle I couldn't surmount; no foe I couldn't take on - and defeat; no battle I couldn't wage - and win. Stock: the creme de la creme. The cat's meow. The be all and the end all. Stock is to business as money itself is to society. And I had mine.
"Epsom!" I called on a sudden brainstorm. "Epsom Salts!"
"Yes, old man?" came the reply.
"Since you were so good to summon me to the single most important telephone call ever received, you may likewise summon my employees - all of them. Have them assembled and at attention. I shall return inside of fifteen minutes for the single most important meeting we have ever had or quite likely ever will have. I shall return."
I ascended to get dressed. This was both the place and the time to confront them, to expose the conspirators, to dismiss them from my service. My spirits soared, my energy exuded. I was ecstatic. I would rid myself of traitors once and for all. And good riddance!
Donned in my best business suit, I returned downstairs. Tiny white pin-stripes up and down a charcoal gray blend; a newly pressed and spray-starched white shirt; a solid dark gray tie; black wing-tip shoes. I was prepared for the serious business at hand. Never having appeared before my workers thusly attired, I struck an awesome chord in them, I'm sure of that. For, as I was the boss, so too must I, and did I, appear the boss. Even my hair, combed back straight, revealing a high, broad forehead, testified to my authority.
"I have called you here," I began in a commanding voice, standing at the head of the stairs, "for a bit of bad news. Among you are conspirators. Villains who would destroy the great ideas I have promulgated; felons who would render my plot a useless waste heap, who would pull out the props upon which my story stands; ingrates and turncoats who would betray us all. I have ferreted out a vicious smuggling ring. Yes, I said smuggling."
"You said 'smuggling ring,'" it was rudely pointed out.
"Silence!" I ordered. "I will have no disruptions - or whoever chooses to disrupt can join the smugglers. For all traitorous acts - all acts of sabotage - must now be seen as one. The work we have undertaken here is too important, it brooks no dissension. No interruptions, no clever remarks, no interference. The culprits, I am now prepared to name. As I call your name, please move to the front of the stairs. Stand there, awaiting further instructions. 'Gypsum Salts,'" I called first, followed by the other conspirators, none of whom have been introduced to the reader so I will not waste precious space naming them now, though each in his and her own way was crucial to my story. All in all seven were called out from the others to stand apart.
"Each of you seven I have witnessed delivering my ideas, my plot, my characterizations to an enemy too loathsome to be named in my own home. But you know who I mean. Just as you know your own guilt in the matter. You seven have betrayed me - betrayed us all. There can be no further place for you here. Know - each of you - what glorious wonders your vile deeds have taken from you. Look around - know what you have renounced. Know what your infamy has cost you. Never again will you enter a place such as this. Never again will so great a talent immortalize you. Never again will you model for such well-drawn characterizations. It is all lost to you. For, as God is my witness, I say unto you: Be Gone! Go! Leave this place of truth, of beauty, of honor, of compassion forever! Get thee gone from here. For you are fired, each of you, all of you. All seven. And never set foot in this house again. Never. Nevermore."
I stood, hand raised, finger pointed, a Cerebus denying entry into my domain. The way out, I showed the traitors. The long hard journey away from truth, away from glories, away from Art. Go, villains, the work is ended...for you.
"But...but," a feeble voice attempted a pitiable explanation. Turning to my foreman Epsom, Gypsum Salts spoke out. "I was only doing as you asked me too," he tried shifting the blame from his to his brother's shoulders. Lame excuse, quickly - and rightly - rejected.
"Look here, old bean, I don't know what you're trying to imply," said Epsom, "but you jolly well better take your medicine and, like our respected employer says, get the H on out of here!"
Crushed by Epsom's refusal to accept the blame for his evil deeds, Gypsum turned away and made for the front door. The others soon trailed after. There is no Court of Appeals in such matters. I rule this roost - it is my home, my enterprise, therefore mine to dismiss whomever I choose, and for whatever reason I please.
Amen.
Needless to say, there was a great deal more pleading, attempted explanations, proposed terms of exonerations on the part of the conspirators than I have depicted. But, being a true artist, I condensed these artificialities out of my pages. I don't wish my work to run to a thousand pages, and I have so many beautiful descriptions yet to render, so many stunning events to relate, so many fine characters to portray that I chose to omit, or at least to but briefly depict, the irrelevances. My readers, being individuals of the keenest sensitivities, no doubt applaud my artistic judgment. (I thank you.)
Upon dismissing my workers, and before everyone had scattered, I called my foreman, Epsom Salts, to my study. "I just want you to know," I said, "how deplorable I find your brother's conduct, what with his dastardly attempt to shift the great burden of his guilt to your shoulders."
"I say, old man, that's jolly good of you," Epsom replied, clearly pleased to find me so sympathetic an employer. I then explained to him that, seven characters short, a complete rewrite of my novel may be necessary. "If so, I'll need all the help you can give. You know how these characters are. It's next to impossible getting a good day's work out of them. It may take a complete re-structuring of my labor arrangement. I'll let you know more as to that once I've gone over my outline and my notes. I just want to be sure I can count on your continued support."
"I should say you can, old bean! By God, if I have to, I'll get a whip and stand watch over the bloody shirkers! They'll be handled alright: when you need them, they'll be there - or my name isn't Eptom S. Salts!"
"Don't you mean Epsom?" I pointed out.
"Good show, old man!" he exclaimed. "Jolly good show!"
"One more thing before you go. It's a small thing, but not insignificant. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use the term 'Jolly' in my presence. It sounds too much like...well, like a certain name - a name which will remain 'nameless' in my house, if you get my drift."
"Like a raft in a storm, old bean!" replied Epsom. "Like a raft on a sea of waves."
"Good man," I complimented him.
Returning to my work, I soon discovered that, not only had the gang of seven left me with a gap in my manuscript which I would need to fill, I had an excess of filler to boot! This, I'm certain I would have discovered in time as I drew near the climax and found myself with much too much action, far too many characterizations, an overflow of ideas and themes - in a word, too much of a good thing. (Considering the level of craft I evince, perhaps I should say a "great" thing.) Let me elaborate.
My novel, at this point, was roughly three-quarters of the way through. In devising my plot structure, I had allotted - or perhaps pro-rated might be the better term - an equal share of the various elements which comprise a novel to each chapter. Further, having calculated the proper number of chapters I would need, I knew exactly how much of the material I had used thus far and, consequently, how much remained. To my great surprise, in going over my outline to see how I could best eliminate all traces of the conspirators, I found I need never have worried in the first place for, in truth, I had at least three characters I had not yet put to good use for every one I was eradicating - a most advantageous ratio, and one I could easily hold over my characters' heads should any others be tempted to work against me. In fact, now that my ideas and such were inventoried, it was clear that, if I had a problem at all, it was one, not of having to expand what I had to work with, but to contract it.
This casual delineation of my problem had given me an idea. I had noticed for some time that my prose was becoming a bit stale in places, almost stilted. I simply could not account for it, so unlike my usual prose was it. Then it occurred to me: what I needed was fresh blood, so to speak. I knew it was not my ideas which were wearing thin. I realized that the problem was my characters. It was the stale atmosphere inevitably generated by so close a proximity of so many persons which was rendering my workers commonplace, which in turn affected my prose. What I could do became crystal clear: I would contract some of the work out (or, as it were, sub-contract it). True, this would yield me even that much greater excess on my hands; but, here too, I had a plan. I at once summoned my foreman.
"Epsom," I informed him, "it looks like we're going to have to split our shifts. I see no alternative. I've got too many characters to fill the space I've left myself. I can no longer guarantee full employment, I simply haven't got the work. Now I realize this is bound to create problems. But I know my characters; I've come to appreciate their infinite capacity for sacrifice. Epsom, they're just going to have to tighten their belts a little till things get better. You tell them that for me, And tell them too not to despair, things are bound to pick up once I begin my next novel. There'll be plenty of work for everybody then. If you run into any trouble, just remind them that they're not really all needed here, but out of the goodness of my heart I'm keeping them on. You remind them of that. If there's still any dissension, we may have to take more drastic measures; but, for now, let's try and reason with them. Okay?"
"Good show!" my man declared. "Jo -" he caught himself in time. "Oops. Sorry, old bean. Slip of the tongue and all, what!"
As soon as he was gone, since I did not wish him to overhear me, I telephoned my agent, Hanson A. Meyers.
"Hello," came a seductive voice over the wire - not the voice of my esteemed agent.
"Is Mr Meyers in?" I inquired.
"Halfway - till some fool rang the phone," she replied seductively but rather cryptically I thought. Then I heard her inform Meyers of my call. He must have been quite nearby. "Hansy-pantsy, it's for you," she said.
"Meyers here!" he answered, in none too pleasant a voice.
"Roland Domby here," I said. "I need some help."
"He needs help," Meyers said, evidently to his visitor. I heard a giggle. "What can I do you for, Domby?"
"I wish to secure the services of some models and actors and the like," I explained.
"He wants models," I heard Meyers tell the woman who was with him. "How many, and what sex?" he asked me.
"Half a dozen at least, the sex doesn't matter."
"He said sex doesn't matter," Meyers said. Another giggle. "How about three of each?"
"Sounds fine. Let me just explain what it is I require," I took a moment to elaborate my plan to contract out some of my work. "They must be absolutely above reproach. Bonded preferably."
"Bondage, eh?" Meyers asked. Another giggle. "Well, Domby, I believe I can help you. Yes sir, I've got just what you need. As fine a set of actors and models as ever graced a stage."
"Well, I'm not a playwright, I'm a novelist," I reminded him.
"Or the pages of a novel!" he assured me.
"Excellent. And, most importantly, I'll need a good unemployed writer/editor. Naturally, I'll have to re-write everything to bring it up to my standards. But, as I see it, those of us who are better established owe it to those just starting out to farm some of our work out to them - let them try their hands at ghosting awhile, just to get the feel of the art."
"Wants to feel up some artsy ghosts," Meyers whispered, to a great burst of laughter.
"Hansy-pantsy," I heard in the background, "tell Donkey Domby I'd like to model for him myself sometime." The message was relayed to me; I said I'd think on it.
Meyers promised to phone me as soon as he had rounded up the parties I needed. I returned at once to my work to try and pick out the least brilliant parts to farm out; needless to say this was no easy task. I found myself discarding one after another idea as too profound to be left to an amateur. Finally, almost in desperation, I settled upon six scenes which were of a tolerably inferior grade; these I clipped from my outline and pasted, each one, onto a sheet of bond paper, labeling each as to the type of character and setting I needed to flesh out the scene. It set them aside and started to close my outline when, lo and behold, a most unfortunate thing happened.
In my haste, and desperation, I had inadvertently clipped from my outline in such a haphazard fashion as to leave, not only gaping holes in the remaining portion, but my very outline in a most precarious position. Scenes - beautiful scenes, bare frames awaiting a myriad of detail to give them the feel of reality - hung almost in shreds from the pages before me. This, I realized, would never do. Anything might happen to them in such a state; they could get lost; they could slip one over top the other to become stuck together to where I would have trouble separating them; they could dog-ear and overlap, thus sealing vital information forever within the very paper on which it was written. I grant you these were unlikely possibilities; but you must never rorget the heinous nature of the cosmos we inhabit, nor should you overlook the demons which had earlier infested my walls. No, it was just too risky to leave these severed scenes dangling. I am not a man to tempt fate. Yet, I wondered, whatever should I do?
"I've already set aside quite enough of my precious work for sub-contracting," I reasoned. "I have no desire to give away all my ideas just to help out some struggling young writers. Whatever can I do?"
Then, in a stroke of brilliance, it came to me. "If I cannot give away," I decided, "by God, I'll sell them! I'll hold an auction, invite unknown writers, established writers too - with one obvious exception; but then, why would It purchase what It has already purloined anyway? Maybe even some critics. Perhaps a publisher or two. Magazines. Digests. In a word, anyone who appreciates good literature. They're all free to come bid on my work. And may the best bidder win. For, indeed, he will win: he will have, in so doing, pronounced himself peerless in the realm of taste and sensitivity."
What a truly inspired idea!
I decided on the new Convention Center in the heart of the business district. They had a number of private rooms which were, I felt, adequate to my needs. I made a special trip into the city.
"My name is Roland Domby," I introduced myself to the convention manager, a Mr Velt, a thin man with very nice shrewd looking gray eyes. I stated my business.
"I see," he considered my proposition. "An art auction, you say. Reproductions, or originals?" he inquired.
I could hardly believe anyone would take me for a dealer in second-rate goods. "Originals, of course!" I replied.
"Hmm. Here's a tricky question now - but as proprietor of this most prestigious emporium, I feel it my duty to ask: are they stolen?"
"Indeed not!" I let him know in no uncertain terms. "I hardly need to steal another's work when my own speaks so eloquently the concept of genius!"
"No nudes in there, I hope."
"My dear sir, I deal in manuscripts, not paintings!"
"I see. Manuscripts, you say. Old books. Well, let me look at our bookings and see if we have anything available." Here he took out a chart, a graph with dates and names of organizations posted throughout.
"I shall require a room capable of holding at least a hundred," I advised him.
"Hmm. That would be either our Bong-Bong Room or Cong-Cong Suite - both of which, I'm afraid, are booked solid."
"Is there a chance to cancel someone? My business is most important."
"No, I'm afraid not. But say: why don't you rent a room at the Greatest Northeastern Motel. They have auctions there occasionally."
"I hardly think the Chairman of Rodon, Inc., should be observed hawking from a motel room!" I said.
"Rodon? Rodon, you say? The Rodon, Inc.?"
"The very same," I replied.
"Ah, that's different, sir. I do wish you had said so in the beginning. Yes, decidedly, that makes all the difference in the world. In fact, now that I look a little more closely, I seem to see here where I mistook what is - why, yes! - merely a blob of grease - for an entry. Good gracious, look here, would you! Three more blobs of grease! Someone's been eating French fries in here! My goodness, Mr Domby, I have any number of openings. When would you like me to book you?"
"Next Thursday would be ideal, preferably around eight o'clock," I said.
"Absolutely available," he informed me. "Thursday at eight P.M. it is. Thank goodness I noticed these grease spots in time. Why, the very idea of anyone offering to send you to a motel room when we have so many lovely rooms just waiting to be taken! I don't know what I could have been thinking of."
Here Mr Velt took out a pair of spectacles from his middle desk drawer and put them on. "Why, goodness, it's perfectly clear to me now what manner of genius I'm dealing with! Please do forgive my poor eyesight."
It was odd, because, in truth, the spectacles did not appear to have any lenses. Yet they must have, for the instant he put them on he was able to see me exactly for what I was. I assume they were the new invisible lenses, designed rather on the principle of transparent cellophane tape. Most ingenious - and, I might add, most becoming.
I had a lot of work to do to get ready for the auction. There were ads to get out, handbills to have printed, invitations to engrave, as well as passages to mount and frame. I placed ads in all the trade journals I could reach on such short notice. I visited my printer to let him prepare a thousand handbills; he was most eager to cooperate. He was not there at the time, but his assistant assured me my bills would be ready by close of business the following day - which, indeed, they were.
I sent my characters out to all parts of the city where artists and, especially, writers were known or thought to frequent. I would have helped had not the need to personally address each engraved invitation taken up what little free time I had. The invitations, of course, being of a slightly superior character to mere posted bills, were to go to the important writers of the area (with one exception who, as the dear reader very well knows, is not important anyway); the handbills were strictly for the unknowns, who, being such, I could hardly have addressed an invitation to even if it had been proper to do so (which, for obvious literary reasons, it was not). But the bills were pretty enough in their own right.
"Attention Writers, both Unknown and Established," it began, although, as I have explained, not actually intended for Established Writers, "this coming Thursday at 8:00 P.M., an Auction will be held in the Bong-Bong Room of the Convention Center on the North-East Liberty Throughway Loop South-West. An Unbelievable Array of Unused Plot Devices, Left-Over Themes, Original Ideas and Profound Characterizations will be 'On The Block' for your bidding. Come Prepared To Take Home the Germs of Your Masterpieces. And Please, Bring Plenty of Lucre."
The lettering was a splendid green-yellow against a most becoming pink-gray background bordered in stunning ravenesque. I kept a few for souvenirs. Incidentally, the engraved invitations were also very tastefully done: gold lettering, cream cards, for which I selected pale burnished bronze envelopes, which I addressed with a black felt tip pen. It squeaked, the pen.
"I have left no stone uncovered," I informed Mr Velt the evening of the Auction.
"Isn't that 'unturned?' 'No stone unturned?'" he corrected me. I acknowledged the correctness of his correction, wondering vaguely how it is I had muffed such an ordinary cliché. It was not like me.
"And when will the auctioneer arrive?" Velt asked.
"I beg your pardon?" I was surprised that he should ask me when it seemed to be his province to secure such services.
"Haven't you got an auctioneer?" he inquired.
"I thought that was your province," I replied.
"No indeed. But, that's alright. We're in luck. We just happen to have a convention of auctioneers going on in the Cong-Cong Room. Last minute thing. Hastily put together. I just made the reservation fifteen minutes ago. They all arrived at once asking if we had a room available. By chance we did. The American Association of Auctioneers and Callers - AAAC. One of the most prestigious auctioneering outfits in the country. You're in luck. I'll go over and see if I can't rent one for you. I'll just be a minute."
"May I accompany you?" I asked. "I'd like to be sure I'm getting the best; and, if possible, one with a literary background."
"Be my guest," said Velt.
Together we crept into the Cong-Cong Room, taking a moment to listen to the rapid-fire discussion going on.
"An-now. Gimme a beer, gimme a beer, gimme a beer!"
"What d'you say? Gimme a shot!"
"Do I hear champagne? Champagne once."
"Champagne twice."
"Over there. Champagne for two. Do I hear champagne for three?"
"Quite lively, aren't they?" I observed.
"Wait till the Awards Ceremony starts," said Velt.
We interrupted long enough to secure the services of a most energetic middle aged man, who advised us that he had once presided over the sale of three tons of paperweights and bookends.
"You take away your bookends from your classics - take 'em away, take 'em away, take 'em away! What do you have? What do you have? Do I hear falling standards? Falling standards? Going fast. Falling once. Falling twice.. Going fast. No more standards. No more classics. Going fast. No more books. Falling three times. Gone. Sold to the man from the Pulp Mill! Clear on down the river! Take 'em away!"
"Indeed," I decided, "this is the man to conduct my auction."
We negotiated a fee and, minutes away from the appointed time, whisked our way into the Bong-Bong Room. I asked if the huge crowd I anticipated would pose a problem for him. He assured me it would not. Then it became eight o'clock. We waited.
"Nobody shows on time," the auctioneer advised. "They're gonna be late - gonna be late. You're asking eight o'clock? Gonna be 8:15. Unless I hear 8:30: do I hear 8:30? 8:45? 9 P.M.? Do I hear 9?"
We waited and waited until, indeed, we both heard the stroke of 9 - and still no one had shown. Nine-fifteen: still no one. By nine-thirty, however, things began happening. All at once five people came in together; they sat down in the very last row of seats. I was skeptical if their bids would be adequately heard from back there so I invited them to take a seat farther up, which they declined to accept. A few minutes later another five showed up: three together and two singly but in close sequence. It got to be ten o'clock. We decided to start, since it looked as if no one else would show; and, of the ones who did, it was clear that none were very important or significant personages.
I had arranged my passages in the order I wished them presented. The auctioneer took up the first.
"What am I bid for this masterpiece?" he inquired. At first nothing. I was glad in a way I had not set minimum opening limits. After a time the item was returned to the stand and another taken up. It too was returned. A third was held up before the audience; evidently it caught someone's fancy, for two or three began stirring in their seats.
"I'll bid one penny!" announced one.
"Two cents!" said another. I was almost sorry now I had not fixed minimum bids.
"Two cents! Do I hear ten? Ten? Come on, you can do better than that! Five, do I hear five?"
I couldn't believe my own ears. Here was my auctioneer, asking five measly cents for one of my finest passages (in one paragraph alone I counted 200 words!) - and not getting it! Two cents: two cents worth of bid was all I heard. I had no choice but to shake my head "No" to such an outrageous and wholly unacceptable bid, at which cue the auctioneer set it aside, announcing it withdrawn from the bidding. He then took up the next item. No bids. The fourth. Likewise no bids. The fifth, however, brought a virtual torrent of bidding, everyone clearly eager to get his hands on this masterpiece.
"One cent!"
"Do I hear two?"
"Two!"
"Three?"
"Three!" And on up to seventeen, whereupon the bidding abruptly halted.
"Going - going -"
Just in time the auctioneer glanced over to see me shaking my head.
"Withdrawn," he announced, at which everyone got up and left - all ten. Then there were none.
All I could do was shake my head in disbelief. Oh dear lord, if that wasn't mankind for you: always out looking for a bargain, passing up that which was a bargain at any price.
"I'll cast no more pearls before swine," I resolved.
"In this world, cast your swine first, then hit 'em with your pearls. Hit 'em last. Hit 'em hard. But hit 'em."
"You see before you, my dear sir," I said, "a most dejected man. I expected more of these people. I thought they might rise above such pettiness. I'm truly discouraged."
"You're discouraged!" the auctioneer cried, looking up from the bill he was preparing for his services. "I'm ruined! I've built my entire reputation on being able to sell anything - I mean any old shit! - to anybody - I mean anybody! I've failed. Failed. I'm washed up. Washed up. Lost my touch. I'm going. Got to give this up. Just going. All used up. Failed. Going, going, gone. That'll be two hundred."
I paid and, before I knew it, he was gone.
To come home empty-handed is bad enough; to come home that way to a household in turmoil is intolerable. Evidently, my much too idealistic desire to help lesser writers was entirely misinterpreted by my characters. As I soon discovered upon entering my front door, they had seen it as a cheap (I call it cheap) attempt to raise money so as to provide them with ever increasing amenities. As if they did not already have the best of all possible circumstances, they greeted me with outstretched hands, virtually demanding yet more. Now, I'm generous to a fault (as my attempt to auction off my prose proves); but, my God, I'm no fool. A good wage, a fine place to live, three meals a day, supurb working conditions: who could ask for more? Indeed, what more is there for a worker to ask of his employer? But dear reader - my dearest, my most beloved reader - mark these words well in case you ever embark upon a business venture yourself: ask more they will! Believe it, I know whereof I speak. If you're not careful, they'll demand your very business itself as their due! (This, dear reader, they call Socialism - but if you ask me, it's anti-social.)
"You got our back wages there?" a shaky voice asked, and I had not even loosened my tie, let alone removed my suit jacket. (I had selected a light gray linen and silk blend summer suit, a burgundy tie, a pale gray shirt, and of course black wing-tips: one does not go to the Convention Center poorly tailored). I was unable to discern who had spoken, but the abruptness of it annoyed me.
"Back wages - front wages - wages on the side - and up and down - and in the middle too I guess you'll ask for next!" I replied rather angrily. An employer can take just so much before he is compelled to point out just who needs whom!
"You ain't got 'em?" came the nasty retort. I swear to God it seemed to have come from the very walls; I saw absolutely no mouth spew those vile words out - though, now that I think of it, that was the sort of remark one makes from the corner of his mouth.
"Let me just take a moment to point out - to all of you - that my mission tonight was purely altruistic. There was nothing venal in it. I found myself with an excess of prose, so I tried to extend my talent to those less fortunate. They refused. End of discussion. Let them remain unknown if such is their wish. If you'll excuse me now."
I made for the stairway when, of all things, a virtual riot of poor taste broke out. I was appalled both as an employer and as an artist. Shouts, cries, even demands were hurled at me; I feared for my safety amidst such heaps of abuse. Not knowing whether to run or simply duck, I whirled upon my miscreant employees.
"We want wages!" some insisted.
"Give us our daily bread!" clamored others.
"Truth!" hollered someone, though it might have been "Truce" instead, I couldn't be sure.
"Justice!" screamed another.
"The American Way!" someone had the audacity to imply that their treatment was anything but the American Way. It was at this point I turned and came threateningly toward them. They backed off a little.
"What is the meaning of all this?" I demanded to know.
"We cannot make ends meet," a hastily selected spokesman explained. (I have no idea which character it was, they all looked and sounded pretty much the same to me, save for the distribution of age, gender, height and weight.)
"Well whose fault is that?" I asked. "If you cannot stay within your means, how on earth do you expect to make ends or anything else meet?"
"But we haven't even been paid this week yet," the spokesman protested.
"Nor have you been paid what your work is worth either," I observed, "else paydays would be few and far between!"
"We work hard," the spokesman maintained.
"Perhaps by your standards what you do qualifies as 'hard work' - but not by mine!" I retorted. "Now good night to you all," I said, turned, and ascended to my quarters. I assumed that was the end of it.
The very next day, however, I received a visit from one Mr. Chubleston of the Bureau of Employee Protection. He informed me that one of my employees had that morning filed an official complaint against me.
"I have to check them all out," Chubleston asserted in an oily, almost obsequious way. His voice - indeed his whole manner - was rather ingratiating. At first I did not like him, but the more he spoke the more I realized I had judged him too hastily and much too harshly.
"Very few of these complaints," he informed me, "have the slightest merit. We exist solely to serve the public interest, as I'm certain you know. We try our best to weed out the complaints deemed frivolous - which, I assure you, is at least 90% of them. The others we investigate a little more thoroughly, just on the off chance there might possibly be the slightest bit to them. There never is, Mr Domby; there never is. Disgruntled workers: that's all it ever turns out to be. But, we have our job to do. So tell me, sir, is there any merit to this complaint lodged against you?"
"None whatsoever!" I stated boldly and with great finality.
"I was afraid of that, Mr Domby," Chubleston confessed. "Would you care to see a copy of the complaint?" he then asked.
"I wouldn't lower myself to read what whoever it was has said," I replied.
"I don't blame you," Chubleston agreed. "Well, I won't keep you further," he added. "Have a good day, sir."
"You too," I echoed his sentiment, courtesy being the very least we owe one another.
Surely, I thought, that ends the matter. But, as God is my witness, it did not. Barely an hour went by till they were at it again, hollering, fussing, chanting - you name it.
"What is it now?" I stormed downstairs demanding to know.
"Inflation's too high!" they whined.
"If you people wouldn't buy so much it wouldn't be so high!"
"We only buy what we need! It's that new expressway done it: didn't you read where the contractor suddenly tripled his price?"
"If he did, you may be sure he had a perfectly good reason," I assured them.
"Yeah: he's greedy!" they had the gall to malign this man's good name. "And he's in cohoots with city hall!" they added injury (or perjury, as it were) to insult.
"I will not have that kind of talk in my house!" I ordered.
"Then we all quit!" they said in unison. They headed for the door.
"Of course," I tried being as fair as possible, "inflation is a terrible burden on everyone. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll adjust your wages for inflation. Let's see, it stands, I think, at 3% now. I'll adjust accordingly."
"But everything we buy's gone up 10%!" they cried. "And the working conditions anyway - what with having to run up that conveyor belt and back down again, and up and down the stairs 'cause the belt couldn't carry a flea anyway: they're intolerable, and we spend so much on aching feet and tired lungs and the like!"
"The conditions we can negotiate about. I'll make a note of it. Just as soon as my engineer advises me how to better utilize the work space we have."
"And the inflation?"
"We'll negotiate. Just as soon as my efficiency expert advises me -"
They did not so much as wait till I had finished. En masse they stormed out, crying "We're on strike!" So it had come to that. A walk out. After all my efforts to meet their demands. Before the day was out I was being picketed. Such, dear reader, is the nature of labor.
What a damnable universe it is that rains so perversely. How many times, I sought to recall as I stood at my window watching my house being picketed by my own workers, have I planned some entirely decent undertaking only to have the weather hamper my efforts? And now, when any decent existence would summon forth hail, typhoon, lightening, thunder, torrents of downpour, snow, even, and ice to thwart these vile activities right outside my very window - now, where were the rains? the very ones which had come so often to plague me? You would think nature could do better than rewarding meanness; but then, this is, after all, that self-same nature which delights in tormenting goodness. (I could hardly wait for next year's "I Hate Nature Day" Parade - I resolved here and now to lend all my talents to it.)
Sign after sign trailed past my window, each one deliberately thrust up nearly an arm's length higher each time it passed beneath me. How ungrateful, as if throwing salt on my wounds. And the enormity of the malignment of my character, as witnessed by the grisly slogans painted on these hideous signs.
"Unfair to labor!" read one in huge red letters. Unfair? Me: unfair? Who never goes to bed at night without extending my prayers to those who work under me? Who runs all over town seeking all manner of tincture and purgatives and what-not at the slightest hint of ailment? Who even farms out work so as to spare my own workers' strength? Me - me - unfair? No one but the most monstrous liar who ever lived could suggest it.
"Down with exploitation!" I nearly fainted when this one passed below me. It was in electric blue lettering against a florescent yellow background, the brightness of its illicit and heinous message all but blinding me.
"A fair wage for a fair day's work!" I could only shake my head at this. How many poor wretches in this world, I wondered, would give anything for even half the wages I pay - and consider themselves the most fortunate creatures who ever lived?
"Only God can make a tree!" read yet another. No doubt someone's attempt to shame me by putting the words of the Psalm upon his placard, never mind how little relevance to the issues of the strike.
And so it went, the live-long day, sign after sign, sign after sign, and not a cloud above, not so much as a drop of rain upon the lot of them. Toward evening my shop foreman, my most loyal and trusted right-hand man, who I knew would stick by me through this as he had through everything, entered and stood vigil alongside me.
"I didn't hear you knock," I noted.
"I didn't knock," came the reply.
"I see. Times are bad, yes," I observed, "but not so bad we can suspend the rules. You should have knocked first."
"Sorry, old bean," Epsom Salts apologized. "Shall I go out and do it right?"
"Please."
So he went out, knocked, and was properly admitted. Once you begin lowering your standards, anything might happen. They must be maintained, no matter what.
"May I suggest an arbiter, old man?" Epsom inquired.
"An arbiter?"
"Yes. All strikers seem to share an awe for arbitration. Indeed, were they unwilling to compromise, they would hardly strike - they would simply quit and be done with it! It follows, old bean, as night does day, that they'll submit to arbitration. Binding arbitration. By an impartial third party. Shall I negotiate with them? get them to agree? And, meanwhile, you can select an appropriate arbiter?"
I liked the sound of this. I liked it a lot. Anything - anything - just to get these disquieting signs from my house. I at once agreed. Epsom went to negotiate. I turned to the Yellow Pages.
"Let's see. Arbiter. Arbiter. Ah! Here we are. Arbiter." I ran my fingers down the list till I came to a name which, I felt, sounded encouraging. I dialed.
"Please hang up and dial again. The number you have reached is a non-working number," came a recorded message. I hung up and dialed again. This time I got through.
"Du Carl Tiersford speaking. If you can't say something nice about someone, you may have a problem for an arbiter. Leave your number and I'll get back with you."
I left my number. I no sooner hung up than the phone rang. "Hello," I said.
"This is D.C. Tiersford of 'Problems Are Made To Be Solved.' At some point in time I received a call from a Mr Roland Domby at this number. Are you he?"
"I am he," I replied.
"Have you some identification? Birthmark or Birth Certificate or Birth Chart?"
"Yes, I do," I answered.
"Good. As long as you know who you are, I'm satisfied. What can I do for you, Rodan?" the voice asked.
"Don't you mean Rodon?" I inquired, a little surprised, pleased also, that my company was so well known.
"I mean what I say. Aren't you Roland R Domby who attended the Middlebrow Lectures at Prepton U? The same one who used to room with a kind of dumpy looking kid who wore felt shoes because of the bunions on his toes? The same one who lighted old Pejakok's shoe strings after tying them together? Aren't you that Roland R Domby - the one a certain Miss Bright nicknamed Rodan? after that Japanese monster flick? Huh? Aren't you him?"
I owned that I was.
"I always thought the name a bit too macho - too, oh I don't know, too blue-collarish for a business and economics crowd like us though. But if you're him, then how come you not to recognize your old roommate Duke Tiersford? Huh?"
"I just don't," I replied.
"And I guess you don't recall my old souped up Lincoln? The Mark IV? With the glass packs? Surely you can't have forgotten your old hot rod buddy, Dual Carburetor Tiersford, can you have?"
"Well, it's like this," I finally managed to explain, "I'm calling in a business capacity. I'm going to need your services as an arbiter to help settle a dispute arisen between myself and my employees. It's like this, Dewly - hey, remember how they used to call you Dumb-Cluck Tiersford until the time I passed you the crib sheet and you got an A?"
"You were a big help to me, Rodon. I owe you one."
"That's just it, Du, I don't want you to 'owe me one.' I want you to be as impartial as you humanly can. I don't want you to think a single time of what you owe me - not even of that blind date I got you for the Prom. Not even of how I helped you beat that traffic violation. And Duke: not even of my being best man at your wedding."
"My first wedding," Tiersford pointed out. "We had our marriage annulled."
"Sorry," I said. "But all those things you owe me: I don't - repeat: I do not - want a single one of them brought up. Just put them right out of your mind and - as a favor to an old friend - hurry right over. Can you accommodate me?"
"Can I accommodate you? Ha! They didn't call me Dat Cwazy Tiersford for nothing, you know! Be right over. Just give me the address."
He kept his word, too. Within twenty minutes a Lincoln Continental pulled up in front of my home. Out stepped old Tiersford, the very air about him pulsating with impartiality. Now here, I thought, was a truly great arbiter. In the meantime, my foreman, Epsom Salts, had informed me that my workers had agreed to Binding Arbitration.
"Excellent!" I declared. "For here, in the person of one Du Carl Tiersford, is the most scrupulously - ruthlessly, almost - impartial man who ever drew breath!"
"How do you do, old bean?" said Epsom.
"I shake no hands, I accept no introductions, I don't even look at anyone until I've heard all the facts and made my decision," Tiersford said majestically as he snubbed my foreman - not a real snub, only a professional snub.
I hurried to assemble my workers. "Don't cross our picket line!" they said. "Say what you have to say from there!" I informed them that a very great Arbiter had come among us and was ready to begin arbitrating.
"Do you mean arbitrating or do you mean arbitration?" I was asked. "Is he going to verbalize or nominate?"
I thought a moment. "He'll be doing a little of each," I replied. This seemed to satisfy them. They sat down their signs - or, I should say, stood them up, since each sign was embedded into my front lawn, each worker using his right hand to plant his sign so that he would not have to cross his own picket line to come inside.
"All of you, take a seat," said Tiersford upon our entry. He spoke with his eyes shut. I took my customary easy chair; my workers sat upon the floor. "Alright, let the arbitration begin," Tiersford announced.
"Good," some of my workers whispered, "he's beginning with the nominative."
The cases, both for an against - that is to say, my case and that of my workers - were presented. When we had finished, our arbiter thanked us. "And, as you can see," he pointed out, "my eyes never left the impartiality of their lids - not once. I have no idea which side gave which evidence. Who it was said wages were too low, working conditions bad - I have no idea; nor can I tell who expressed the view that labor was milking the enterprise dry. I weighed only the bare facts put before me, not who put them there."
Tiersford was generally commended for his intransigent impartiality. Some skeptics, however, tried to hint that he may have peeked at one point, so - at Tiersford's own insistence - he was blindfolded and the evidence again given.
"I will now commence the arbitrating," he informed us, attempting to retire to a dark corner of the room to consider the case. He almost tripped and, finally, had to be led by my foreman to the hall closet to begin deliberating. Barely fifteen minutes had elapsed when we heard a great crash within the closet. We all came running. There, upon opening the door, we beheld on the floor before us Tiersford surrounded - indeed, nearly buried - by a heap of coats and hangars which had fallen somehow from the clothes bar. We helped him up.
"Please remove my blindfold," he ordered. "Now I shall render my decision; and, in light of recent events, I propose, if no one objects, to employ the idiom of the closeting of apparel in so rendering." No one objected.
"Very well then. First, it must be stated that apparel wants space. The closet accommodates. But a train of events ensues which alters the original scheme. Wear and tear in the fabric creates dust particles. Humidity causes some bleaching. In a word, the closed space is conducive to unsavory conditions. Yet, and secondly, where would the apparel be without the closet? They would be worse off, for they would be exposed to cooking fumes, household debris, all manner of electromagnetic interference. In a word, far worse off. It is therefore and accordingly the zealously impartial finding of this arbiter that wages should be cut, preferably at a diagonal to the cost of living, and, if it is agreeable, at an inverse proportion. Further, that a profit sharing plan be at once initiated, contingent upon its being upheld by the Committee For Unfair Labor Practices. This decision becomes effective the moment I snap my fingers. When I do snap them, I ask each person present to follow suit and snap his or her consent. Ready, on your mark, get set, go!"
Snap!
Snap!
As easy, dear reader, as a snap of the finger (if you'll pardon my much too facile use of cliché here) and all my labor problems were over.
So I wouldn't forget, I made a huge note for myself: "Promise Profit-Sharing." I posted it on a piece of gray construction paper and set it at the left-hand side of my desk. However, as it proved a distraction to my train of thought, and at so crucial a time, when I was nearing my climax, I had to remove it to a more remote corner of my study. The thoughts associated with it I likewise removed from the immediate field of my attention in order that nothing distract me from my work. I felt unbelievably energetic, even for me.
The words flowed in a torrent from my pen, assembling - I'm almost tempted to say "I know not how," so rapidly did they assemble - into phrases, then to sentences, to paragraphs; and, in that manner, whole passages sprang into being, as if spontaneously generated. Such, of course, is the nature of genius that it scarcely senses its own activities; its creations appear with a mysterious assemblage which it is loath to account for, making me suspect that the higher mind is barely conscious.
I often times had to forcibly remove my pen from the page with my free hand that I might peruse what I had set down before me. I was stunned by the brilliance. "Now where did this plot device come from?" I found myself asking, though I well knew it came from my outline, its transference to my manuscript the only mystery, and, presumably, a secret known only to my higher faculties. I watched bedazzled as my characters performed the most exquisite feats, intonated the most scintillating dialogue, executed the most subtle denouements. And objects, as if drawn on my pages by the consummate brush of a Norman Rockwell or a Currier and Ives, took an almost literal shape before me. Description followed description, assigning to everything its correct size, shape, color, texture and usage. If a character raced along the thoroughfare in hot pursuit of a villain, his every bead of perspiration was captured in its trickle down his face. Or if a handsome young count flew in his Lear jet toward his heartthrob's rescue, you could sense the very pulsation of his hands upon the wheel. Or if a stolen banknote was thrown by the wind across town to the police station window, the very breeze wafted like a kite against the page. There was nothing which did not virtually leap out from my manuscript at you. And when, almost before I knew it had happened, the shootout which framed the climax of my novel was looking up at me like the barrel of my hero's gun, I realized that before the day was out, I would be done. My work would be finished. My novel complete.
Then came a rap at the door. Epsom Salts called to me. "Sub-contractor to see you, old man!"
I had almost forgotten the passages I had contracted out. "Hmm," I wondered, where will I put them? This could pose a problem.
I hurried downstairs, checkbook in hand, to greet Mr and Mrs Spidget of Finishing Touches Limited. They each carried a stack of passages, each passage, as they showed me, fully meeting my specifications. Size, shape, style, even the color of ink was perfect.
"Note this," they said. "Note that." "See this here." "See that there." "We dare say, a perfect match - right down to the watermark. Do you see?"
"I do," I said. "And the descriptions?"
Together they read one. "The big heavy yellow wrinkled old man wearing a dark green felt hat with a peacock feather inside the black elastic band, and a light green surcoat of wool from the finest angora speckled with polyester of an almost charcoal hue, and black wing-tip shoes loosely tied with slender thread-like laces, carried a red weather-beaten rose which looked like a slightly serrated ruby in one paunchy hand on which the delicate pink nails gleamed, and a 45 caliber Smith and Wesson in the other, equally paunchy, hand, the nails of which, like mother of pearl ornaments, seemed too exquisite to pull a trigger."
They smiled and I smiled. "Perfect," we three said.
I paid them and betook my new passages upstairs, eventually managing to find space to paste each and every one in my manuscript. Once the glue had dried, and I removed the excess, I would have safely defied anyone to say which passages were mine and which were not. The fit was that good.
With the very best of intentions I sent my characters out to the garden.
"Go," I ordered, "gather the bounty; bring it to me; and, together, we shall prepare a great feast to celebrate the completion of my work, from which we will all become famous and prosperous."
Eagerly they complied with my request, while from the porch I watched. Certain movements I was puzzled by. They seemed to be, no sooner extracting fruits and vegetables from the ground than throwing them aside. I concluded it was weeds being cleared. Truly, I thought, you should have kept the garden properly weeded all along and you wouldn't be having the trouble you are now! There was, in fact, as I reflected upon it, few things in life worse than a poor gardener. For, as the good earth provides, so must man be prepared to reap the harvest. And clearly my gardeners were not prepared, for they had neglected their duties.
"My God!" I mused as I continued to watch," is it nothing but weeds?"
Before long they returned, their bushel baskets, alas, all but empty. I advised them that, as we would need more than this, they ought to resume their picking.
"We picked it clean," came the report.
"What? Just this much? Impossible! Why we had enough seeds to feed an empire. There must be more; surely you've just overlooked it. Better go back."
They all shook their heads. "There was plenty there," it was explained to me, "but almost all of it had withered and dried up. Only these were we able to salvage." At this they paraded in front of me, each in turn showing me his nearly empty basket. Where there was anything, it was all of one variety: carrots. Only the carrots had survived. Everything else had succumbed. My garden, plagued by bad weather, storms, drought, a massive strike by my workers and who knows what all else, was in a word a ruin.
"Ground's too dry," someone said. "That there crazy ditch of yours done siphoned off all the drainage."
"That there 'crazy ditch,' as you call it," I pointed out, "has made it possible to get from here to the main road and back without stepping through half a dozen mud puddles!"
"Maybe so," came the reply, "but at the cost of your garden. Fill that damned ditch in before you have a real catastrophe on your hands. Have you noticed how it's grown and spread already? You ought to fill it in while you still can. Ground needs its drainage to be healthy."
Well, who ever heard of such nonsense of speaking of lowly ground as having or needing health? It was too absurd to dignify with a rebuttal."
"At any rate," I said, "take the carrots in, peel them, and I'll decide what to do from there."
I decided to call Kretchner, the green grocer, and ask which foods went best with carrots.
"There's nothing like a carrot," he assured me. "The only thing orange in mother nature's arsenal. Show me another orange plant and, by God, I'll eat it!"
"What about pumpkins?" I asked.
"Seasonal - strictly seasonal."
"Well, there's sweet potatoes."
"Not a true orange. Too brown."
"And cantaloupe. And mangoes."
"Too exotic."
"Well," I said, "how about oranges themselves?"
"Food coloring. They're no more orange than I am."
"How'd they get their name, I wonder?" I asked.
"I think it was Gertrude Stein named them," Kretchner replied. "She called everything something other than what it was. Remarkably poor linguist. Even poorer horticulturist. I would have recommended Fo Ti Tieng had I been there. Makes everything's identity leap right out at you. But I'll tell you what, Domby: you've given me an idea. Since you're clearly obsessed with this particular shade, why not have yourself a Feast of Orange? I'll cater it, for a small fee. I'll get you all the dyed fruits you can eat; I'll even tint the sweet potatoes for you: you'll have orange coming out of your ears. Just tell me when."
"We were thinking about this evening. We're celebrating," I explained.
"I'll be there, with bells on! Have all your pots and pans ready, wash and peel your carrots - and leave the cooking to me!"
The day went by very rapidly as, eagerly, we awaited dinner. Six-fifteen Kretchner arrived. With him, much to my surprise, and delight, was Sister Mary Margarine - older and wiser, as she explained it, and here to bless our modest feast.
"I've chased down those ghosts of yours - the very same ones - all the way to the sacristy," she explained.
Needless to say I was shocked that demons would dare - or even could - invade the church itself. "How did they get there?" I asked.
"One of the altar boys, unknown to the priest, had written an obscene verse on the side of the altar. A limerick: 'There was a young lady from Nantucket' - I leave to your imagination the rest of it. It takes more than blessings and holy water to keep spirits away from bad words. They were drawn like flies. I thought I'd never get them out."
"But you finally did?"
"Yes," she replied. "But only with the aid of 3M. I used strips of transparent tape to remove the verses - luckily they had been written with magic marker. They came right off. I then stuck the horrid things to the hem of my habit and ran out, screaming in Latin for strength. Of course they followed. I removed my habit and threw it down a manhole. The spirits are now in the sewer, where they belong - since that's where their minds were! And I'm without a habit - that was my last one. Which explains my being in street clothes."
We chatted awhile about the nature of good and bad verses; and, as we did, I discerned in the ex-nun a discriminating critic of fine literature. Just as we were commencing an exegesis of Joyce Kilmer's "Trees," quite possibly the most virtuous poem ever constructed, the green grocer announced that dinner was ready and, if we would be so kind as to assemble in the dining room, he would commence serving it.
"Carrot soufflé," he introduced his creations one by one.
"Carrot surprise."
"Carrot in wine sauce - you may wish to pass on this one, Sister," he noted.
"Carrot con carne."
And, here, at last, the piece de resistance," he announced as he carried forth from the kitchen a truly magnificent bit of culinary genius, "my specialty: carrot ka-bob! Come and get it!"
"But first," I reminded my hungry fellow diners, indicating the good sister.
We all bowed our heads while the food was blessed.
"Dearest Lord," the prayer began, "with your almighty aid we propose to accept these wonderful morsels, so scrupulously grown by your loving servants, brought forth from the ground as raw matter, prepared to tasty perfection by our friend the green grocer. Aid us to chew our food properly, to swallow without incident, to digest and assimilate what nutrients thou has given us, and to dispel the roughage."
"Amen," Sister Mary Margarine ended her prayer.
"Amen," we all followed suit.
"Let the meal begin!" Kretchner announced.
And so it did. The great Orange Feast of Celebration.
If genius is 90% perspiration, 10% inspiration; so is a great work of art 10% pure creation, 90% editorialization. Good and most gentle reader, you've no idea how indispensable to an artist - even to a great artist - is a fine editorial staff.
I knew my work was at last done; I knew, too, that it must now pass through other hands along its way to the reading public, who so eagerly awaited the great truths, the exquisite prose, the complex plotting, the profound characterizations and, most of all, the superb descriptions I had to offer. I immediately telephoned my publisher to inform him of the good news. His secretary advised me he was extremely busy and could not be disturbed just then but she would inform him, at the earliest possible moment, of my message. Meanwhile, she urged me to collect my agent and, if I had one, my attorney and drop by.
"Will Mr Timpony be free by then?" I inquired.
"He should have discovered what he's looking for by then, yes," was her reply.
I thanked her and immediately telephoned Hanson R Meyers, my agent, E. Elgood Elkins, my attorney, and arranged to have them meet me in the lobby of Timpony House within the hour. To my dismay, not only had they not arrived ahead of me, they failed to show altogether (or so I thought). I waited fifteen minutes then went on up, but not before I was accosted twice in the lobby, first by a vaguely familiar man at a makeshift magazine stand wishing to know if I cared to purchase some "girlie" magazines: I was scandalized that so cheap an enterprise would be permitted in so exalted a building.
"No," I said, "I do not care to."
"Got some boy magazines too," he then had the effrontery to say, winking as he did. "Got the latest 'Baskets 'n Buns.' Hot off the press!"
I simply walked away, only to encounter yet another familiar looking man. This one was glancing around cautiously, as if he at least sensed how inappropriate his presence was in this fine marble foyer and feared being apprehended.
"Pardon me," he said, rather softly, "but you look like a man who's either in a hurry or else too early. What you need is a good watch. I happen to have one right here." He took out a preposterously cheap looking watch and attempted to palm it off on me. "I wouldn't normally ask a penny over ten dollars for this; but, seeing how I have you somewhat over a barrel, I'm going to make it twelve-fifty. Take it or leave it."
"I'll leave it," I said.
"Tell you what I'm going to do," he started to bargain but was spotted by one of the doormen, who promptly chased him out.
"I'm sorry, sir, for any trouble he may have caused you," the doorman apologized to me. "We get these peddlers the live-long day in here. They're everywhere in this city - everywhere!"
I agreed with him there, adding that I felt the magazine vendor should be put out as well, he being a decided discredit to so fine a place as this. The doorman looked kind of funny when I said that. "I'll speak to the staff about it, sir," he promised, excused himself, and walked away. For my part, I went on up to the fourteenth floor. To my great surprise, who should I discover already in my publisher's office, chatting away, but Meyers and Elkins.
"We just came on up," they explained. "There was some old peddler down there trying to sell watches. We had him thrown out of course."
"And the magazine vendor?" I asked. "Did he too plague you with his abominable filth?" Both Meyers and Elkins looked very funny. They nodded yes, they had seen him, but said nothing. Timpony lowered his eyes from the ceiling and withdrew his hands from his pockets.
"Filth?" he asked.
"Abominable filth," I answered.
"Hmm," he mused, "I wonder if he's got the latest 'Buns and Boobs'?" His hands went back into his pockets and his eyes returned to their fixed stair upon the ceiling.
"You got it?" Meyers asked of me. I produced my manuscript from my briefcase.
"Right here," I said.
"He's got it, Timp," said Meyers. Elkins seconded that.
Timpony lowered his eyes, question marks evident in his features. He seemed to be fumbling inside his pockets for something. Presently he withdrew a handkerchief and held it in his outstretched hand as if he expected me to deposit something in it.
"His manuscript," Elkins said. "He's got his manuscript."
"Oh," said Timpony. "Manuscript, you say. A good word to call something. I like two syllable words. Not four syllables though. And I have no truck whatsoever with five or more. If it won't fit into two or three carefully chosen syllables, I have no use for it. May I please see this...what did you call it?"
"Manuscript."
"Yes. A good name. I'd like very much to see what one looks like," Timpony requested. I held it out for him to see. "Why, it's pretty," he said. "Where did you find it?"
"I created it," I informed him.
He stood back, clearly awed. "My God," he mused. "Where did you ever get the idea for it?"
"Little by little it came to me."
"By post? Of course! Now I see. You ordered it through the mail. I shall order myself one. By the way, if I'm not getting too personal, what do you intend doing with it?"
"I propose," I announced, "giving it to you so that you can turn it into a book!"
Again he stood back. "My God, I'm no magician!" he insisted. "Only a publisher. But...I do have assistants. I've heard Miss Snoot refer to some of them as 'Editors.' Just maybe they've discovered how to effect such a transmutation. All they can do is try. In fact, I'll call in Chipper, my company manager."
Momentarily a stodgy, squarely built man entered from a side door; he seemed vaguely familiar, though I failed to place him.
"Chipper," introduced Mr Timpony, "this is a gentleman with a manuscript he ordered, a Mr Domby. Domby, show Chipper your manuscript."
I complied. Chipper inspected it, pronouncing it "cumbersome, bulky, much too weighty. I could reduce these entire contents to a single silicon chip you could carry in your pocket. The world's about to effect a quantum leap forward," he went on to explain. "In the high tech world of tomorrow there will be neither manuscript nor books, everything will be miniaturized, reduced to a fraction of its size and weight. Genius will no longer consist in creativity but in storage capacity - warehousing. Computers are the libraries of the future. It's good you're being published now, because next year I couldn't guarantee it."
"Tell me," my agent interrupted, "does this process you mention apply as well to magazines and photographs?"
"It applies to everything tangible. Whatever cannot be computerized will cease to be produced. Period."
"No more girlie magazines?" asked Timpony, doubtless out of a deep yearning to have such filth at last done away with.
"Not a one!" came Chipper's most optimistic reply.
Presently, this conversation drifted away and the main work at hand commenced. Taking my manuscript to a large conference table in an adjacent room, my publisher, agent, attorney and the company manager of Timpony House together began perusing it. After awhile it was Elkins who first spoke up.
"The legal profession has, well, let's call it a vested interest in certain, you might say, dynamics of social interaction," Elkins pointed out. "Certain passages here - like this one, and this one, could be read as conflicting with that interest. Which is of course to say, with the public interest itself. I just wonder if they might be altered ever so slightly."
Meyers, too, noticed a passage here and there which seemed in conflict with the public's interest as he saw it. Chipper as well.
"Rather suspicious, some of these passages," he noted to his boss.
"Suspicious?" asked Timpony.
"Extraordinarily so," said Chipper, at which Timpony turned abruptly away.
"If you ever learn to say what you mean in two or three syllables," he explained, "you may summon me." With this, he returned to his office.
"Some of the economic implications I see here are quite out of keeping with our finest traditions. Who financed this venture?"
"The great banker, Horace Hokum-Poicus," I replied.
"It wouldn't hurt one little bit to call him. Let's do. Ad perhaps an economist as well." With this Chipper made for the office telephone. We took a break from our labor, returning to the lounge on the seventh floor, the Upstairs Booth, for a snack and a good cup of coffee. When we returned to our work, we were greeted by my good friend Hokum-Poicus who, in the company of the brilliant economist from the firm of Bullhorn, Baldercash and Busched, V.M. Busched, and, of all the delightful surprises, the great engineer Zimrod Zardon, informed us that my manuscript would get the most careful scrutiny of any manuscript ever written. I thanked him - all three of them - for their generosity.
"By the way," the banker drew me aside, "I brought along a couple K - pocket money. Your stock's gone up again and I just wanted you to have a little something. It's strictly on the house, Domby - the Bank's simply writing it off as overhead." I thanked him.
"Before anything else," announced Chipper, "I'd very much like to have an engineering opinion as to the content of this manuscript."
Zardon came forward. He looked it over. "Structurally sound," he pronounced. "I just wish half our dams were made as well," I thanked him for his encouragement.
Next the economist, Busched, approached, examined it in great detail. He turned to the banker. "Hokum-Poicus," he said, "we've got problems. You see here, Hokum-Poicus - may I call you Hoke? How this sets up what could be taken for a disclaimer ex economic jujitsu sparmishment? And this, Hoke - may I call you Hokey? How it ramifies cretinisticism without manifestationism?" From the adjoining office came a flurry of sighs these big words poured forth. "And take this, Hoke - may I call you Hokey Pokey? See how many widgets it takes to equal these blodgets? Never do - never do. Start a panic. Absolutely a panic. Possibly a revolution. These passages here, for instance: what do they remind you of? I'll tell you: 'Das Kapital.' And these? Chairman Mao's 'Little Red Book.' And see this one, Hokey Pokey - may I call you Horace? It coincides with what John Kenneth Galbraith wrote concerning the Great Crash. In a word, Horace - do you mind if I call you Hokem-Poicus? - this work before us has got to be suppressed. Very dangerous. Wouldn't you agree?"
Hokem-Poicus was forced by the logic inherent in his field, as well as by his professional ethics, to agree. "Now, Domby," he explained, "we're not for one minute questioning the truth of your opinions, only the propriety of placing them before the public. People are not ready to read such radical stuff. As to suppressing it, though, I totally reject that notion. You're a good man, Domby, a first rate administrator, a superbly enterprising entrepreneur, without peer when it comes to corporate strategy, a regular Wall Street whiz-kid, and not a half bad writer either. You can take this book, Domby, and in your capable hands every last trace of offensive material, inside a week, will be gone with the wind; I know it will. I know we can depend upon you."
"Indeed," I assured him, "you can. An author who cannot alter his text to bring it more in line with the great truths and values of his society is not worthy of the name! Gentlemen, that's how I see it. So: let's begin the rewrite."
"Amen!" cried Zardon.
"Say that again," Timpony called from his office.
"Amen," we all said in unison.
"Now that's a word a publisher can live with. By the way, what does it mean?"
As I had no wish to start a panic, let alone a revolution (if, as the worthy reader has undoubtedly long since discerned, if I'm anything I am a patriot), I agreed at once to all the changes my worthy associates recommended. Indeed, I was grateful to them for pointing out the dangers inherent in my novel, which of course only verifies what I had already suspected: namely, that the great author, in his native modesty, quite often fails to appreciate the enormous influence his works have on others. I would as soon set my pen down forever as to begin a rebellion through its agency.
Once the editorialization was complete, and my work reduced to its true and beauteous essence, the pages were sealed inside a huge envelope, tied with rope, and submitted to the printer. I accompanied it, always pleased to visit my dear friend.
"Ah, Domby," he greeted me, "it's you. And what have we here?" he pointed to the package.
"My manuscript," I replied.
"All ready to go?"
"All ready to go."
"Good," he complimented. "Let's get right over to Ajax."
This, as I discovered, was Ajax Jacket Design Company, a firm housed in the South wing of the Printing Company. We arrived via a series of long corridors which tunneled through the huge building. Corridors off of which all manner of noise trailed after us: the roar of printing presses; the ferric tinkle of typesetting; the explosive click of copiers, each click accompanied by a cold white flash; plus the groans of injured workers, as I learned upon inquiring what these almost panting moans were.
"You seem to have an infirmary almost every few feet," I noted.
"Yes," the printer replied, "our workers' health is paramount."
Presently we arrived at an open door (the only door in the building which seemed to be open) and entered a very long, somewhat narrow, room, something in the manner of a conference room. There were cabinets along either side running the entire length; and, on those, were all sorts of brightly colored objects, some quite obviously paper, some pencils, a few of them items unknown to me. The room contained, I would estimate, a dozen individuals, each wearing a long white lab coat which bore on the back the name Ajax. Everyone immediately, upon our entry, huddled about us, one lady appearing to be their leader.
"Amanda, we're ready," the printer announced. The dozen scattered as if a live bomb had been thrown at them. They began grabbing things from the cabinets, it appeared absolutely at random, and placing them on the long table in the center of the room. So fast did they move from cabinet to cabinet grabbing things that I halfway suspected I was watching a time-lapse sequence. The printer and I waited perhaps half an hour until, simultaneously, all twelve again approached, each with what was, now that I saw it up close, a design for a book jacket. I assumed all along this is what they were working on, but the way they went about it I couldn't be sure, their work seeming so haphazard. The printer and I looked them over. He shook his head. All twelve again scattered. Another half an hour brought them back to us with twelve new designs, each of which was rejected. Half an hour more and yet another round of designs, and so on. This kept up for nearly three hours until at last the printer saw one to his liking. The coloring, the illustration, the printing all pleased him.
"Domby," he announced, "this is it. Your new book jacket. What do you think?"
"I like it," I informed him. "It was worth the wait."
"You're lucky," said the printer, "sometimes it takes weeks before the perfect design turns up. And until the jacket is right, the book is not printed. Period. I won't have trash bearing my imprimatur. The jacket is what sells the book, just as the glue is what holds it all together. Until the glue sets, until the jacket surrounds it, it ain't a book. Period."
My dearest, most worthy readers - whom, incidentally, I number among the finest human presences ever to grace this dreadful planet - know too well the level of my wit and sophistication ever to suspect me of engaging in that lowest, vilest form of humor, the pun, when I remark that I received the Shock of My Life the day my novel was unveiled. My publisher, together with my printer, my agent and my attorney arranged a great press party for the Tuesday following publication. Everyone of any worth in the literary community was invited, together with such other dignitaries as might lend the occasion an air of respectability. I personally extended invitations to my banker; my economist; the great engineer, Zimrod Zardon; Kretchner, the green grocer; Bogdon Buchner; the Reverend Claude Dingledoody, of course; the renowned statesman, Gregory Tchoo; Jerry, Michele and the rest of the staff of the Creatatorium; as well as the chairman of the board of the American Computer Chip Corporation. I realized, much to my horror, that I had omitted perhaps the single most important personage, the one man without whom no such gathering could hope to succeed, except for me the greatest driving force behind my career: my public relations expert. (Let me take a moment to explain my inviting Reverend Dingledoody rather than Pastor Goodness; for while they were "Rivals in Christ," they subbed for one another when either was unavailable. And knowing how important a man of the cloth was to such an occasion, I asked Dingledoody, an old family friend, to attend.)
I set off at once to Cliffstead Drive. From the moment I entered the range of television hill, whose transmitter loomed from every alley, behind every building, above every telephone pole and street light, I sensed something wrong. Hurrying the taxi driver the last few blocks, I felt it, this premonition, stronger with each row house, until, emerging from the taxi at number 010203, I was positively overcome with a sense of doom. In my dazed state I grossly overpaid my driver, dismissing him with a "Keep the Change." I hurried to the door, knocked, was admitted by a very distressed looking housekeeper.
"Shemp Dingle please - Roland Domby to see him," I announced myself.
"He is no more," she informed me in a hollow, ghostly voice.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "How did it happen?"
"Go on in his study, he will tell you."
Has he left a message for me on his terminal? I wondered. How professional of him, right up to the end mindful of his greatest client. With trepidation I opened the study door. And nearly fainted, for there, behind his desk, sat the deceased himself. He looked up and smiled at me.
"Are you a ghost?" I asked.
"0-2-02-dot dot dot," he mumbled. "0-3-03-dash dash dash." Then "0-1-0-1 bleep bleep bleep." Followed by a small chuckle. I summoned his housekeeper, demanding an explanation.
"It happened late last night," she said, tearfully. "He was attempting to repair his terminal. He stuck his head inside and touched, I think accidentally, one finger to a loose wire. All the flights flickered. When he removed his head, his hair was standing on end, his lips were as vacant as you see them now. I called Doc Mergee. It took him but fifteen minutes to deliver his opinion. 'This man,' he said, 'is suffering from total amnesia, the most pronounced I've ever encountered. It may well be irreversible and permanent. I would write Social Security at once for a disability profile.' Then he left. I don't know how to reach Social Security. Presumably he has the address in his computer, but I can't work it, and every time I try he starts crying. Oh dear, whatever shall I do?"
"I must find that address," I resolved. And, while I was at it, I may just as well copy down the public relations schemata he had drawn up for me. I began at once working the keyboard.
"Leave Shempie be, leave Shempie be," Dingle whined in a far-away voice. "He go poo-poo pee-pee. 1-2. 1-2. ooh ooh. ooh ooh." He was led out, presumably to the bathroom. I tried again but had no luck calling up the profile. So, not wishing to disturb him further, and since I saw no way to assist him further, I slipped out.
Full of apprehension of the unveiling ceremony, I returned home, taking time only to change my attire. Once my tuxedo was properly arranged, I summoned another taxi and was on my way to Timpony House, its great marble lobby to serve as backdrop for my novel's introduction before the public, or at least that portion of the public deemed worthy of such an event. By the time I arrived, the place was thronged with enthusiasm.
"Ah!" announced my agent the instant I appeared upon the threshold. "Ladies and gentlemen, here he is now, the man of the hour! I give you Roland Domby - the Mercedes Benz of Literatti!"
I found his introduction, actually, a bit gaudy. Taste, I believe, discourages such inane comparisons; besides which, if he felt he had to proceed in that vein, he might have at least said Rolls Royce. But I was gracious nonetheless. A hefty round of applause greeted me. I bowed in acknowledgment of their homage: a great personage must be, above all else, humble. Admirers are to be cherished.
"I thank you, one and all," I returned their greeting. "There can be no compromise, ladies and gentlemen where excellence is concerned. To appetize, as it were, your caviar and champagne with anything less than the very best literature were to be guilty of the most unforgivable breach of decorum. I could not look you in the face were I to offer you anything but my best. And now, if first I may take a moment to introduce, for those of you not yet so privileged, my illustrious publisher, Mr Timpony, I will get right to the unveiling. Mr Timpony, will you be so kind as to do the honors."
A miniature stage had been erected in the center of the lobby; around it was draped a shimmering golden cloth which, when the gold tasseled cord was pulled, would open on all four sides far enough to allow everyone a glimpse of my novel. Timpony stepped to the stage, staring for a moment at the curtain.
"There's something in here?" he asked. There were a few chuckles at his tongue-in-cheek witticism.
"Yes indeed," I replied.
"Hmm," he mused and, for what reason I have no idea, reached beneath the curtain to fumble about a bit. Suddenly the most horrible thing imaginable happened. In groping about, my esteemed publisher accidentally knocked my novel off its little perch onto the marble floor. He jumped back.
"What on earth is that?" Timpony inquired, looking all around.
"It's your bread and butter!" someone exclaimed.
"Ah, that explains the sandwiching appearance," Timpony mused. Meanwhile, my agent retrieved the book, replaced it, set Timpony's hand upon the cord and, directing his motion still, pulled the curtains open. A burst of applause greeting the unveiling.
"Ladies and gentlemen," my agent then announced, "refreshments will be served in the Timpony Room momentarily.
Everyone rushed off, leaving only me and my book in the great lobby. I reached out and felt of the golden curtain, then of the royal blue satin on which the book set, finally of the book jacket itself, a beautiful blend of reds, greens, yellows, purples and a touch of silver - all three of which textures please med immensely. Momentarily, I had taken hold of the book and was headed toward the Timpony Room to join my admirers.
Three huge crystal chandeliers lighted the Timpony Room; I was informed they had once graced the Empress Maria Theresa's dining hall. Once, so the story went, she had counted the bulbs and found that two of the chandeliers had the requisite amount but the third was lacking a bulb; in a fit of rage she auctioned them off, a Duke bought them, in turn selling them to a Count, who sold them to a Baron, who pawned them in a shop on the Champs Elysses. It was there that my publisher's grandfather found them.
"He was all set to build a castle at a place called San Simeon," Timpony noted, "but someone beat him to it, so he put them here. Every time I hear the story, I marvel at that man's strength, to have lugged those things all the way from Paris, somehow getting them to fit through Customs, then bolting them to this ceiling. The amazing part is how he managed to get even the bulbs farthest from the center to light. I've looked, and looked, and I still see no wires. That man was a genius!"
I left my publisher staring up at the chandeliers. On my way to the wet bar I was pleased to encounter my dear friend Gregory Tchoo, the county councilman.
"Ah, Domby," he greeted me, "I'm so glad we have a chance to speak. Actually, if we could step somewhere and have a word in private, I'd be most pleased." We found a corner somewhat remote. "We - the council, that is - are in the midst of the most crucial session in our history," Tchoo explained. "Had this been a lesser event, I could not have taken time to attend. I'd like to make a proposition to you. There are -" he drew me still farther aside and almost whispered - "issues of the utmost national urgency pending. A complete revision of our Policy Codes. And when I make my stab at the Presidency, I'll want this issue resolved and behind me. As you know, I stand for progress. For everything high-tech. I will not rest until every person on this planet has his own personal computer. The fact that I'm a former board member of ACCC has nothing whatever to do with it, believe me! This is entirely a personal ideal. What I'm leading to is this: we've become bogged down in semantics. I cannot let our policy fail for want of a word or two. So I'm asking, as a friend: will you take time out from your busy schedule to pay us a visit, offer your assistance - your expertise - in order to ensure our policy's success?"
"I'd be delighted," I assured my dear friend. We arranged an appointment for me to visit the council first thing next morning. So excited was I to be of assistance to my country at a time of such national crisis that I found myself grateful when the press party was finally over and everyone had left. Doubtless it was due to the look of intense purpose on my face that no one wished to bother me even to say good-bye: such is the force of patriotism.
Friday morning at 10 A.M. I entered the council chamber, where the members were fast at work ironing out their differences. These worthy bureaucrats were heatedly debating the proposed changes to the Policy Codes. Tchoo at once spied me.
"Ah, Domby!" he called, motioning me onward. "As you can tell, we've proposed a major revision of the important Policy Codes. You couldn't have chosen a better moment to show up. Right now they're at a complete deadlock over an all important article. Some say this, some say that. We need direction, Domby: we need you. Here's the sentence: Mr. Secretary, read us the sentence."
All the while, the debate raged on. Tchoo called out for them to halt their bickering long enough to receive my expert opinion. Momentarily they grew quiet.
"Okay, here's the sentence," the council Secretary advised me: "'(Blank) politician will be presumed innocent no matter what.' Now the problem we have to iron out is which article to use. Should we say 'The politician' -" Here an outcry arose, partly for, partly against the word. "Or, should we say 'A politician'?" Again, an outcry, some in favor of this fine old indefinite article, some opposed. Gregory Tchoo had to once again insist upon absolute quiet while I rendered my judgment.
"Of course," I was compelled, as a man of letters, to point out, "you do have a third alternative." A great gasp went up.
"Oh my God," moaned the Secretary, "you mean there's another word we might use?"
"Indeed there is," I assured him, assured them all. "You could always say 'Any politician.'"
"This damn bunch of crooks," the poor confused secretary chided, "they never told me that. And I specifically asked for recommendations. Just like them though, never tell you everything you need to know to formulate your decision. Damn bunch of crooks! They should be locked up and the key thrown in the middle of the ocean!"
I could only ignore such talk, especially in light of who was being maligned. "Let's consider the options," I went on. "The word 'the' is very specific, which is good for modifying the noun - that is if you want it spelled out very clearly who is to be deemed innocent." Everyone could agree on that. "On the other hand, the word 'a' is a bit broader in its application, denoting a type rather than a specific member of a type. It includes far more individuals - but just because it does, it could weaken the statement's effect." No one present wished that. "And as for 'any,' it implies that all politicians, at all times and places, are innocent - even the opposition." This was at once booed down. I personally recommended the "the" as my modifier of choice. "Believe me," I said, "in my works you'll find a 'the' in just about every sentence. It's a good, clean, all American article, it's accepted everywhere, it's easy to use, it's got a good sound to it; in short you can't go wrong. Some of the greatest writers who ever walked this earth have used it. I find it absolutely indispensable."
There was some additional discussion, after which it was unanimously agreed to accept "the" as their modifier of choice. "Okay, then," announced the Secretary, "we're going with the 'the.' God help us if we're wrong."
I was heartily thanked for my invaluable assistance and sent on my way, the remainder of the councilmanic session being held behind closed doors so that the public would not get bits and pieces of the proceedings but, rather, a full report once it ended. I sometimes wonder, dear reader, if the voters know just how much they are taken into account by their elected officials?
In truth I was glad to get out of there because I had business of the most pressing urgency to conduct. Ever since the disastrous accident which left Shemp Dingle virtually mindless, I had been entirely on my own, without the advice and services of that most important of all artistic auxiliaries, the public relations expert. I would need - especially now, with my book soon to appear on the market - all the promotional help I could get. I would simply have to get another PR man. So crucial did I consider the matter, in fact, that I did not even go home from the county council but went, instead, to the Creatatorium to solicit recommendations from both Jerry and Michelle.
"Do you know a good PR man?" I asked them. So socked were they by my question that they both had to sit down.
"My God," exclaimed Jerry, "you mean you don't have one already?"
"We expect our graduates to conduct themselves sensibly," Michelle added.
I hastened to explain that I most certainly had contracted for the services of a great PR man - one of the best in the business; but that, through an electrical malfunction, he seemed to have lost his mind. This apparently satisfied them; they both arose.
"We deal exclusively," they informed me, "with Big Bob Bulcht of Hype, Type, Gloriebee and Bulcht. They're in the phone book under the P's for public relations. We recommend you contact them at once."
That I did - and, if I may say so, it turned out to be quite possibly the single most important telephone call ever made upon this planet, station to station. It was my great good fortune to be given an immediate appointment - part of their new Instant Celebrity program. I proceeded there at once.
"Where to, Mack?" asked the taxi driver.
"To the city," I said, "1000 Clones Drive, the Round Loop."
Hype, Type, Gloriebee and Bulcht had recently relocated from their high rise downtown to the old stockyard district, now known as Warehouse Row. Here, all the major retailers had their central receiving and distribution points; here, also, a branch of the old Easterly Railroad Line ran parallel to the main drag, known collectively as Round Run, of which Clones Drive was the Northernmost segment, leading into what was termed Round Loop, a kind of alley which wound behind the warehouses to retrace the main route. At one time cattle, hogs and chicken were brought here to be slaughtered; the slaughterhouse itself had been turned into a multi-tiered consortium for the arts. The warehouses, once ancillary to the meat packing trade (a trade now moved to another city altogether), now stood independently of their former focal point.
I got out and paid the fare. My public relations consultants were not merely located within what used to be a warehouse: they occupied, as I discovered, the entire building, a huge cinderblock structure with a full-width loading dock. Indeed, the place was still very much in the manner of a warehouse, deliveries being made almost hourly. Right next door was the Consortium; I had of course been there on many occasions, particularly when the major artistic event of the last decade took place, namely the exhibition of the complete works of Diaper Dave, the sculptor who rose to international prominence with his bronzes of disposable diapers in various stages of utility. I will always remember that wonderful occasion, what with the ten thousand balloons, the confetti parade down Clones Drive, the miniature ponies, the local high school marching band, and the catered quiche party afterward. Fond memories circling like big bright birds, I entered the warehouse.
"Got a head count, Smadie?" one person inquired of another. As I soon learned, the one making the inquiry was Grove Gloribee, the one of whom it was made Smallwood B. "Smadie" Type - both premier consultants with the firm.
"Forty-seven clowns," came the reply. "That's all Hockton and Three Ring can spare."
"Ain't enough - not for an exhibit like this!" yet a third person, who was later identified to me as Sir Malcolm-Edward Hype, exclaimed. "If you have to, get mechanical clowns, Roberts. Whatever you can scrounge up - just so they're cute! This is, after all, the biggest photography exhibit on the East Coast."
At this point my presence was perceived; unfortunately, I was mistaken for an actor or model or some such subordinate. "If you can't act silly, we can't use you!" a fourth individual informed me. As it turned out, this was the man destined to be my mentor: Signor Roberto Segundo Wolfgang Lapidas Bolcht - or, simply, Big Bob. The moment I pointed out my real identity, leaving implicit therein my want of silliness, I was most warmly greeted. Immediately, I was ushered into Big Bob's office, where a nice cool drink of soda pop was offered me.
"This'ms our brand," said Big Bob. "It's got caffeine, choline, lysine - everything but turpenteen!" He laughed a great big laugh at this. I too found myself chuckling. I thought to myself: I like him already; he knows his stuff alright - a first impression again and again confirmed during our long and rewarding association. And since I am a most incompetent author if I neglect that which is the primary duty of the literati, I shall hasten to point out that, as to his descriptive appearance, my new PR consultant more than lived up to his name. He was easily six feet four and, as he subsequently demonstrated at the second annual Century Two Photography Confluence, he could bob for apples literally blindfolded. He wore very thick horn-rimmed glasses, and he possessed a most becoming mustache, red like his hair. His eyes were a green-gray, and his fingernails pink and rosy with exquisitely full moons. His nose drooped and his ears were pricked, almost to a point, as if they not only heard but gathered their data telecomunically. A most impressive individual.
"Here's what we'll do, Donald," he announced almost at once.
"Actually that's Domby: Roland Domby," I corrected him. "I go under the pen name Rodon."
He thought a moment. "A good trade name; Rodon; very good. Excellent," he complimented me. I thanked him.
"Here's what we'll do Ronald - ah, Dodeen, I mean."
"Rodon."
"Yeah, Rodont. Hmm," he considered a moment. "I'd drop the 't' if I were you. Just plain Rodan. Anyway, I'm no philopodist; you choose whatever name you like. But here's the game plan. First, I want you to learn to conduct yourself with poise, dignity, artistry, and style. Above all, style. Style all the way. I want you to be able to walk into a room backwards - I mean backwards - even on your hands and knees backwards - and still, still, project style! That's what I want out of you. The day of loutish, clownish, boorish writers and beatnicks is over - dead and over - gone! Amen! It's Style now! You stick with me kid and I'll show meanings of the word you ain't never dreamed of!"
This all sounded encouraging and I intimated as much.
"First," he said, "you must dance - dance till your little heart goes pitty-pat! I'm going to enroll you in Madame Prunella's Stairway to the Star Machine."
"Actually," I pointed out, "I've been enrolled in a dancing school already."
"Not the Move With the Times, I hope."
"In fact, yes, that very one."
"Cancel at once!" Big Bob ordered. All they'll teach you is a bunch of effete pansy stuff! I want you to learn Real dancing - man's dancing! You're going to need Tap Dancing, the Macho Mambo, the Kung Fu Fox Trot, the Chin-Up Cha Cha, maybe even the Guerilla Gallop, if we see there's time. You'll need all the strength you can get to make it to the top. In fact - let me buzz. Panzer!" he called into the intercom, "bring me Walkin' Tall."
Momentarily, a surly-looking man wearing a denim jacket and leather leggings entered, carrying a long, slender object. "Rodent," said Big Bob, "meet Buford, our battery-powered walking stick! A good thing to have just in case your legs start to give out halfway through your promotional tour. Thanks Panzer." The gentleman grunted, flexed a muscle, and left.
Big Bob turned again to me. "I don't like the way that boy's starting to develop a wiggle in his tail bone," he apprised me. "What you're gonna do," he said, "is grow a goatee. Just on your lower chin, not the upper. Just a small one. Preferably dark."
This worked out good since my hair was, itself, rather dark, as are my eyes, in their own way.
"Now comes the hard part," Big Bob said in a smoother tone of voice. "What's your sexual schtick to be?"
"I beg your pardon?" I was not certain I had heard him correctly.
"No begging - a writer can be many things, but a maskocissy ain't one of 'em! I'll tell you what, you decide. You can be, if you like, a homosexual; or, if that ain't to your taste, I recommend a penchant for short-lived marriages, at least five. Plus a mistress or two on the side. The choice is yours. Just stay away from children, no matter how damned sexy they may be! What'll it be?"
"Well, I did have an affair with my secretary," I admitted. For some reason Big Bob blushed a deep crimson at this revelation. "She's quite a lady," I added, which seemed to relieve Big Bob.
"Okay," he said, "we'll work on the marriage thing. For now, you go home, take a nap, and report to this address at five P.M. I'll meet you there. I want to begin your training at once." He handed me an address written on a slip of note paper - very pretty paper, with tiny naked cherubs at the top.
I did just as he said, and before I knew it I found myself at a mere step across a threshold transported from what looked to be a vacant storefront somewhere near the center of town to a shimmering dance hall, bursting with the light of a dozen mercury lamps and spread before me in red and green splendor.
"Well," said Big Bog, "here we are." He took me to a very tall, middle aged woman with grayish hair pulled into a severe bun, which emphasized her exquisitely pointed nose. "Madame Prunella," he introduced, "this here's Radnor the writer. He's here to put the finishing touches on his much touted and not inconsiderable talent. What can you do for him?"
"I can do wonders!" announced the lady with a slightly foreign accent. Enthusiasm flowed like electric streamers from her voice. "We begin at once." Madame Prunella turned to me. "Take your pants off!" she ordered. I gasped. In my heart I prayed my dancing had not been mistaken for my sexual schtick.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked.
"Ah ah ah!" Big Bob reminded me. "No begging."
"Must I remove my pants?" I asked.
"Why do you have on tights if not to remove your pants?" the lady dance instructor sought to inquire.
"But I have no tights on," I replied.
"What? You will dance without tights? Impossible! You must have tights! Patience!" she called. A very pretty young woman whirled and twirled to her side. "Patience: get this person tights - at once!"
The tights were gotten, I went to the dressing room and put them on, then returned. They were black and felt somewhat uncomfortable over top of my boxer shorts. At least, though, I was attired to begin.
"Watch me!" Prunella commanded. She took up a top hat and cane and commenced a soft shoe routine. Then it was my turn.
"Stop! Stop!" she cried. "You dance with feet of brick! So we will try the tap dance now!" Prunella and I both changed from our soft shoes to ones with taps on the soles. "We begin!" she announced. Immediately, she sounded the beat, motioned me to follow. I tried desperately to keep time with her, but my rhythm was ever so slightly off.
"This way: boom boom boom boom boom boom boom! Now you!"
But, alas, I was no equal of hers. My taps seemed determined to hit all the wrong places, at all the wrong times. Finally, as we neared the finale, and a rapid boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom ensued, my feet simply stopped altogether. Not so much as a squeak escaped from my soles. I was crestfallen. Prunella motioned for Patience to come help me out of my shoes.
"Ugh!" I overheard her tell my mentor. "Poorest excuse for a writer I've ever seen! Why, he couldn't tap his way out of a book jacket!" Then she glanced over at me and shook her head in disgust and walked away. But as my heavenly readers know me for a man who never gives up, they will not be surprised to learn that in my heart I vowed the day would come when I would dance as no other writer before or since has ever danced. Nothing - nothing - could keep me from my great destiny, least of all a pair of glorified cleats.
Of course it would have to rain just as my big promotional tour began. And what a rain! For two whole days prior to my first public appearance it poured as if upturned buckets had been passing overhead in review. On the evening of the second day I looked out; up till then I had been busy constructing my wardrobe. Having invested heavily in proper literary attire, I assembled my accoutrements in my study where, with the aid of my secretary, I selected out the best so as to arrange everything hierarchically. First came the turtlenecks and blazers; of the latter, camel hair came first, followed by corduroy, wool and finally polyester blends. My shoes, too, I established in descending order, starting with dock siders, then loafers, wing-tips, finally sneakers. Greatly pleased with my work, I walked to the window and looked out upon a rain caked universe. Below me, something caught my eye, though at first I could not identify what it was. At last, some moments of hard staring unraveled the mystery. A huge ditch had almost overnight appeared as if from nowhere; it spread the entire width of my house and even seemed to be working its way around the corner toward the rear. Strangest of all, it occupied the very space the great engineer, Zimrod Zardon, had selected for the gully my workers had dug. Zardon's beautiful design for thwarting nature's attempt to create a swamp out of my lawn had gotten swallowed up by this ugly gaping ditch. I could only shake my head and turn away from the window. Once again, man's desire to do good had been rudely intervened by nature: an old, old story retold in modern prose.
The next day, on my way out, glancing toward the side of my house, I was pleased to note that from down here the ditch did not look nearly so formidable. Much relieved, I hurried on, despite the drizzle, to my appointment at Dalywample's in the shopping mall, from whose humble threshold my great tour was set to begin. Miss Delia Washburn, the manager, greeted me. I could not help feeling a pang of regret that my first great mentor, Shemp Dingle, who had originally recommended Dalywamples, would not be here to share in my glory; alas, he was still under a famous hypnotist's care, on the chance his brilliant mind could be located deep somewhere, perhaps within his subconscious.
"Ah, Mr Domby, how thrilling it is to see you again," Miss Washburn remarked. "Come," she took me by the hand and led me to the very center of the store, where, on a table, copies of my book were arranged, rather like a house of cards. "The ladies are all waiting, let me introduce you. Girls!" she announced, "I'm pleased to present to you our newest - and, I might add, a most promising - young writer, Mister Roland Domby, better known to you as simply Rodon!"
The ladies all cheered. I bowed graciously and spoke a few choice words designed to put them at their ease in the presence of a major American literary figure.
"The pleasure," I assured them, "is all mine! I have the greatest awe and respect for such impeccable taste as you ladies possess!" There were a few giggles, but very subdued, just as one would expect from my public. In truth, I found the ladies charming, to a woman.
"Is he going to autograph copies?" I overheard in a whisper.
"Ladies," I replied without specific reference to the whispering, "if any of you would so care to honor me, I would be delighted to personally autograph copies of my book for you." This pleased them no end. They at once came forth, nearly everyone, and purchased a copy. Miss Washburn was kept constantly busy with the cash register.
"And what shall I write in yours?" I must have asked three dozen times that afternoon, each time to a different reply. Altogether, the afternoon passed ever so pleasantly, with just one difficult moment which, owing to my pledge of realism, I feel obliged to relate.
Almost halfway through the session, a most slovenly looking woman approached. (I can hardly imagine how she was let in a public place like this.) She wore an old greenish rain coat, a pink scarf over her head and yellow galoshes. I intuited right away that so tasteless an appearance would conceal an equally hideous sensibility. And so it did.
"I've bought every one of your books," she said. "And I was so sorry I missed you the last time you were here. Thank goodness I made it this time." I realized she had me confused with some lesser author; but, why should I pass up a chance to sell a copy of my novel? She bought one, I signed it; she took it up, handed it right back.
"Please sign with your pen name," she begged.
"This is my pen name: Rodon," I explained.
"What?" she half shrieked. "You mean you're not Silly Jilly?"
I implore the gentle empathetic reader not to try too hard to put himself inside my mind at that moment, for fear it may jeopardize his sanity. Only a mind which has experienced everything that I, artist that I am, have experienced should tempt fate in such a manner. Therefore, let it suffice to say simply that my brow was overcome with a gray nausea which all but rent perception in two. I scarcely know how I managed to reply.
"No, I am another," I said.
"Humpf!" the hell-hag sneered, slammed my book down, turned, and departed. The ladies gathered about me were, of course, scandalized.
"Stupid woman!" I heard someone say.
"Yes," said another, "everyone knows Silly Jilly has bright orange hair."
"Anyway," a whisper confessed, "I hear Silly Jilly's gay!"
So! I thought. A pervert as well as a hack, eh? I might have known!
The rest of the session went by without further incident. I could tell the ladies were growing concerned lest I abuse my hand with writing so many warm greetings and signing my name so frequently. Thus, when they saw a local TV personality strolling the mall, just outside the bookstore, they took that opportunity to depart.
"Oh look!" one lady cried, "there's Veenie Voley!"
"The Veenie Voley?" another asked. "Of 'Scratch My Back, I'll Scratch Yours'?"
"Oh, I love her!" one declared. "God what I wouldn't give to be a contestant on her show!"
Momentarily, all the ladies were collecting around a pretty young woman with dark brown hair. I turned to Miss Washburn and asked "Where to next?"; in response to which she handed me a schedule of stores, cities, dates, times and projected sales in dollars and cents.
"For now," she said, "your promoter just wants you to hit the East Coast stores. Which means - leaving out stores concentrated in the same areas - you'll be appearing at fifty - three Dalywample's between now and Christmas."
To show you what a genius I had discovered in Big Bob Bulcht, everywhere the Dalywample circuit took me, he had arranged to have me appear on a local talk show. Everything was coordinated, synchronized, scheduled within a fraction of perfection. There could be no question of my enduring place in literary history, not with such a promoter as this guiding my career.
Even on a literary tour, dear reader, the unexpected can happen. I of course cannot relate each and every incident which transpired along my route, unique and interesting though they all were. A few, however, stand out as well beyond the ordinary. Let me relate one right here and now, for it has had a profound effect on my career.
In a northern city, on a morning talk show, a quarter of the way into the tour, I was interviewed by a famous local film and literary critic - indeed, so exceptionally well rounded was he that he doubled as a sports announcer. I'm told he began his career in TV as a weather wizard; clearly his star would rise.
His name was Potter Andrews, a tall man with a touch of gray at the temples and clear hazel eyes. He arose and shook my hand when I entered from back stage. We had chit-chatted a good several minutes when, from absolutely nowhere, he asked what college I taught at.
"I beg your pardon?" I wasn't sure I had heard him correctly. Had he misunderstood who I was? I wondered.
"Your college - where do you teach? I assume of course your professorship is in Literature."
"My professorship?" I repeated. "I'm an author," I pointed out his error, though in as gentle a way as I could lest he end up embarrassed. "Not a professor."
"Yes," he said, "i realize you're here in your capacity as an author - and, I'm told, a very good one. But, I just thought perhaps our listeners might like to know where you teach. Maybe their alma mater, some of them - who knows?"
"Alma mater, some of them?" I grew more puzzled by the minute.
"Or perhaps their sons and daughters are your very students today!"
"My very students? Today?" I hadn't the slightest idea what he meant.
"You see," Andrews went on to explain, "every now and then a writer comes along who is not part of academia. Now, as a critic, I know that unless you teach you can't write. Period. Only a hack exists outside the ivy-covered halls. Any writer who's worth his salt comes to Literature wearing his school colors on his cap and gown. He who does not teach is not serious about art and does not get taken seriously - certainly not by those who matter!"
Actually, I had begun to perspire a little. "These lights are bright, aren't they?" I asked. The camera was still on me, so I had to say something - and what I said was, really, not that far from the truth.
"You might say I'm between assignments," I noted.
"A sabbatical - I see," the critic seemed satisfied with my reply. "And where will you be teaching when you return?"
"It's up in the air at this point," I replied.
"Ah," he seemed to understand. "Too many offers. That can happen when you become famous. You belong to the highest bidder. But if you'll take my advice: go Harvard."
"I had toyed with that," I said. And, in a way, I had. I mean, who hasn't toyed with going Harvard? I was glad, though, when the interview was over. The instant I got out of that studio I phoned my agent and informed him what had happened.
"You've got to get me a professorship someplace," I insisted. "I do not intend to have my career come to a screeching halt simply because I can't teach! Without that, the critics will never take me seriously. Can you arrange it?"
He said he'd try.
I couldn't believe how fast they had secured an important post for me. The very next day, while I was still in New England, my agent returned my call. He, together with my publisher, my attorney and my printer, had check out all the schools of higher learning in my area and had, incredibly, on such short notice, come up with - of all things - a full professorship at the prestigious Very Good Writers Academy of Fast Learning - Writers Academy, for short. I would not have to waste precious time working my way up from instructor to associate to assistant and finally to full professor. Best of all, I could teach by correspondence: indeed, if I was going to teach what I knew best - creative writing - what could be more apropos than teaching it through the mail?
"It's perfect," I said.
"We thought you'd like it," said Hanson R Meyers, my agent, whose efforts in securing me this post would not go unrewarded, I assured him.
"I absolutely refuse to take a penny more than 25%," he insisted.
"Well," I had little choice but to accede, "you know best."
On the third day my Special Charter and Teaching License arrived by special delivery. I at once had it framed. Just think: all my life I had heard of the Writers Academy (indeed, who has not seen their brightly colored ads in just about every periodical worthy of the name - why, they even advertise in the Sunday Supplement TV Section!); and now, here I was, a full Professor, ready to assume the awesome responsibility of molding impressionable young minds. I could scarcely believe my good fortune - but then, as I had to stop and remind myself, this is, after all, America, where a kid can grow up to be...another Socrates. (In America the beautiful, it's easy.) I could hardly wait to return home. Two more interviews, seventeen stops at Dalywamples outlets, and I was on my way.
I no sooner arrived than I was at once summoned to my publisher's. I assured him I now knew more about Dalywample's than any living man on this planet. Timpony fumbled in his pockets a moment, deep in thought.
"We had one when I was a boy," he mused, still searching his pockets. "I've got a memory of it tucked way inside somewhere," he said.
I could not resist teasing this great entrepreneur. "Would the memory be in your pocket?" I asked.
He thought a moment. "We could see," he replied. After a pause he said "There's a man on his way here. Chipper - you met Chipper, didn't you? - Chipper invited our Market Analyst, Drummond. He does the most amazing things. He can take a chart - any chart - and, just by looking, predict all kinds of marvelous things. He once predicted that I would sell my company to something he called a multi-national. He seemed very sure of it. He said 'Let's pray they have good taste.' I wonder what he meant? Oh, here he is now - remind me to ask him sometime. Drummond, this is my newest unknown writer, Roland Domby."
"How do you do?" Drummond greeted me. Before I could exchange greetings he announced that we must get right to work. Here he produced a quantity of charts. He set all aside but one which was actually blank. "Alright," he said, "Let's get started. Does your book have action?"
"Of course," I replied.
"I'm talking action on every page," he explained.
"Something is happening all the time," I assured him.
"Good." He wrote "Action" at the top of the chart.
"How about snappy dialogue?"
"That too."
"Good." He wrote that.
"Any chase scenes?"
"Quite a few."
He wrote that to.
"Tall heroes?"
"Aren't they all?"
"Good."
"Damsels in distress?"
"Throughout."
"Good."
In truth, there was not a single thing he asked me about which was not somewhere in my novel. He seemed ecstatic. When he had filled in the chart, he analyzed it a moment, then announced "Timpony, you better make it fifty printings - this is going to be a biggie! I anticipate sales of at least 200,000 hardbound plus 16,000,000 soft cover. When we're done, nothing in our culture will be the same - I guarantee it!"
I was extremely flattered to hear so glowing a report. My publisher likewise seemed pleased. "See, what did I tell you?" he asked when Drummond had gone. "That man can look at a chart and predict almost anything."
"Only in America," I said.
"Amen to that," Timpony agreed. "Oh, I just thought: he failed to mention translations." He buzzed his secretary and asked if Drummond were still there. Fortunately he was. "Drummy," he inquired, "what about translations? foreign rights? we'll want this one to go abroad, won't we?"
"Better not tempt fate," came the reply through the intercom. "Let's just plumb this market to its depth."
"Good strategy," Timpony complimented his analyst. He's right," my publisher informed me, "we'll just wait till the Europeans and the Latins and the rest of the world demand copies of your book. Then we'll clean up."
The moment he said the word "up," his glance went to the ceiling. For a long time he said nothing; finally I said good bye and left, but was stopped on the way out by his secretary, who related a message which had just that moment been left for me.
My dearest reader, I can scarcely write what happened next - what that most awesome message meant - my hand is trembling so with excitement. I half fear my thoughts will appear deranged on the page, clear minded and stable as I am. But let me try and relate this wondrous occurrence, even though I know perfectly well the skeptical among my audience will think me guilty of bombast. I can only submit my already well-documented modesty as proof of my sincerity.
The message I received that most fortunate of all Thursdays was from no less a personage than the Chancellor of the School I was now a faculty member of. He - personally - invited me to a reception to be given that very evening at a swank restaurant downtown, Gagnyon and Aresco's. As I discovered upon entering, the reception was in fact in my honor; actually, in honor of all the new faculty members, myself, of course, chief among them. Gagnyon is a tall man, Aresco short; and there are two doors, side by side, one teak and tall and bearing, in gold leaf, the designation "Gagnyonesque," the other rosewood, small, and in silver "Arescoesque." Tall persons enter the restaurant by the former; short people through the latter. Both go their way from there through an elegant mosaic foyer with mirrored sconces against red damask covered walls to the main dining lounge, French Provincially tasteful and exuding an aroma of duck and champagne. A man in tuxedo and tails came forward to greet me. To my horror I at first mistook him for a waiter and expressed my preference for a "Table near the ocean," as we who frequent the place call the choice seats of the place, the ocean being a miniature of the Bay of Biscay. It was then he introduced himself.
"George W Preston," he said, "Chancelleer of Writers Academy. And you must be Rodon, the great author we've all been hearing so much about lately." I acknowledged my identity, but deferred as to the greatness.
"What a pleasure, Chancellor Preston," I returned the greeting.
"That's Chancelleer," he corrected me. "We at the Academy use the prepossessing form of the term. But come, do take a seat with me By the Sea." I accepted his hospitality, situating myself directly beneath the miniature.
"Tell me a little about the school," I prompted.
"We have pupils all over the country, Preston related. We're the largest correspondence school of the arts anyplace. We spare no expense getting our students trained, stopping just short of seeing that their work is published: we feel we owe it to them to let them experience the exhilaration of finding publishers for themselves. We hold quarterly seminars at the Rest Your Wearies Motor Hotel in the Sit Down Room; registration for our two day session is a mere $400.00. It's a workshop type setting. And twice a year I personally conduct what I call State of the Arts Seminars, in which I analyze and discuss noteworthy contemporary works. I've been written up for that. In fact, I'm pleased to inform you the next such seminar I will hold will be next week, beginning Tuesday and running through Friday. My topic of discussion will be 'Rodon: Legend, Myth, Reality.' You, my fellow colleague, and your wonderful novel will be the subject of the entire three day Seminar."
I could hardly believe my own ears. To think: my novel, discussed by the Chancelleer of a great institution of higher learning, and it less than a month on the market! (I guess the gentle reader will forgive me if I step out of character long enough to crow a bit!)
"Yes sir," he was saying, "I rank it right up there with the greatest works of our age. And that's saying something. In truth, I was beginning to despair of ever finding a truly great author, what with the likes of Silly Jilly being touted as a writer of merit. Imagine, such a hack actually taken seriously!"
Preston was outwardly a small man (I'm quite sure he could easily fit through the Arescoesque door); but inside stood a giant, on its shoulders resting a mighty intellect second to none. I was honored to be professionally associated with him.
"My exegesis," he went on to explain, "will of course use the literal level as its base. I'll explore your novel as the ultimate synthesis of Realism in literature, its supreme example. Really, archetypical. From there I'll delve into the deeper layers. Honestly, I don't know how I'll cover it all in three days. But, we'll see. We'll see."
"I certainly plan to attend your seminar," I assured my Chancelleer. This of course pleased him tremendously. Between bites of our paté à fois gras and lemon almond julienne we discoursed on the magnificent state of our culture. So profound were our various insights that soon we were joined by no less a figure than an art expert, one Marion Sliptimmer, who wrote occasional columns for a famous national journal.
"I couldn't help overhearing you," he said as he seated himself in our midst. Though our table was small, once we heard the name of this illustrious personage, our hospitality made ample room for him. "I agree wholeheartedly that in all the ages of man there has never been the equal of our own - socially, economically, politically, even theologically and philosophically, as well as, of course, artistically. If I may be so bold, Mr Rodon, I should like to take you under my wing. Now is the moment to begin your dealings in art and other precious commodities. I'm giving a little auction at the end of this dinner. I strongly recommend your remaining in attendance."
"Indeed I shall," I promised.
"Good. You'll find it really revealing. We, in America, Mr Rodon - if you didn't already know - appreciate art as no other living beings have ever done. Take your own work, for example - if I may be so bold. Your book will, of course, soon enough make the best seller list. Then, the paperback. The movie. And so on. Then it will be forgotten - as, of course, it must. What I'm saying is, its value will drop. But, in diametric inverse, as it does, so too will the value of your manuscript increase. And once you are dead and gone, it will do so dramatically. Actually, the sooner you pass away the better - from a strictly artistic perspective, that is. Your work will benefit immensely from your demise. If you dropped dead right now, for instance - right here, at this very table - within ten years the price of your manuscript alone would quadruple! Just think of it. An endless supply of riches for your heirs. And of course, if there is a scandal or a tragedy attached to your death, so much the better. We in America understand the true worth of art. All the memorabilia at once becomes priceless. Why, the very shoes you have on your feet will fetch a king's ransom. My personal advice is that when you finally do die, have yourself buried naked: as an artifact, even your skivvies are of inestimable worth. We leave no stone unturned, sir; not in the U.S. of A."
"That's why we're number one," I remarked. "And why all the world looks to us for cultural examples."
"Speaking of," a voice fast approaching from somewhere behind my fellow diners expressed, "I've just been handed the latest market strategy." It was my mentor, Big Bob Bulchet. I introduced him, upon which he was invited to join us. "If you gentlemen will permit, I'll just briefly go over the strategy with my client." Both of my guests graciously assented - how could they do otherwise, when one taught art, the other collected and evaluated it?
"Here's the pitch," Big Bob informed me. "We wait till the third week you're on the best seller list to negotiate the movie rights. Market research has shown that to be our strongest bargaining position. Then, once the movie rights are secured - and only then - we negotiate the paperback rights. What we're planning, too, is a new Video Game based on your novel; we're working with Vidie-Idie-O to develop the right concept; they're a subsidiary of ACCC. Now, the Tee Shirt we're thinking about marketing immediately. And Guys and Dolls of Dearborn - the big children's magazine - has already approached us about both the coloring book and the paper doll rights. Turntable has expressed an interest in making a record, subject as yet undetermined; I get the impression what they're hoping is that your talents extend to comedic routines. I'll get back to you on that, though. Then there'll be the line of Rodon puppets coming out mid-November - just in time for the Christmas rush. Plus I've almost got a contract worked out with P&T Novelties for a copyright; they're coming out with a new line of toilet tissue with the faces of famous celebrities emblazoned on each piece - two ply! They've expressed an interest in your likeness. They're going to call the entire promotional package The Shrouds of the Americas. This venture alone could make you a very wealthy man. Then, of course, we'll have to evaluate each of the lesser proposals on a one-by-one basis: the sunglasses, the baby's bibs, the beach towels, the ladies' parasols, the toothpicks -"
"Toothpicks?" I simply had to interrupt.
"They'll be regular toothpicks," Big Bob explained, "only they'll have your name on the box. Truthfully, I'd steer clear of that: it won't help your reputation one bit to have people picking their teeth with Rodon Picks."
"I quite agree," said Sliptimmer. "It is a bit garish - not to mention gauche encouraging people to suck and pick their teeth after meals. We are, after all, a civilized people and have certain standards of decorum to maintain. So, if you'll accept the advice of a humble art expert, leave off the toothpicks. The little income you'll derive will hardly justify the venality of such an association."
That was good enough for me. The toothpicks were out.
There is something which, out of pure embarrassment, I have put off revealing as long as I dare. My conscience has been at me constantly to set it to paper; until, now I must acquiesce. My most patient, understanding and - yes - forgiving readers, please be informed that when I arrived home from my initial promotional tour, what greeted me was enough to shame any decent employer; for, evidently, in my absence all standards were simply thrown out the window. Had I found my Rules of the House, which hung, framed, in the living room, on the ground outside, I would scarcely have been more shocked at what I encountered. There was filth, there was chaos, there was a fetid odor of mildew everywhere; my employees had let both themselves and their surroundings get into the most truly disgraceful state. Some of them actually wore tatters, and doubtless had not bathed since I departed. Scraps of food were about, as if packs of animals had been rooting in the carpet attempting to hide them. And in the kitchen, not a dish had been washed. Upon my entry, my characters stared at me as if they would attack; instead, they scattered the moment I spoke.
"Where's Epsom?" I demanded to know. A moment of silence passed. "Well, answer me! Where is he?" Finally a reply.
"He's not here," was said in a timid voice.
"I can see that!" I replied angrily. "Where is he?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"To a magic show," came the reply.
"A what?"
"A magic show. With a ventriloquist. And a dummy. And a -"
"He can find all the dummies he wants right here!" I observed. "The moment he returns, I want to see him!" I informed my workers then ascended the stairs to my suite, which, although locked, I feared for just the same since that infernal conveyor belt afforded easy access from below. Fortunately, nothing appeared disturbed. (I should note here, in passing, so as to clear up loose ends, that, as it would be awhile before I began my next project, I decided to let my secretary go. I could always get another one later.)
A good half an hour passed before I heard the familiar steps outside my study, the familiar tap on my door, the familiar "I say, old man, you sent for me?" beside my desk.
"It would seem I had to get my message to you through a ventriloquist's dummy!" I replied sarcastically. Oddly enough, my anger unnerved my shop foreman, who I had never seen the least bit ruffled. At first he said nothing, almost as if he had been caught in the middle of an indiscretion; finally he spoke, and when he did was very apologetic.
"I'm really sorry you had to find out like this," he said. I could tell he was about to say more, but since I had no wish to hear a pack of excuses I cut him short.
"Save your excuses," I said. "Just be informed I'm very disappointed with you. Not only have you failed to keep my workers from making a shambles of my house, you go traipsing off to see a ventriloquist!"
"Hear a ventriloquist, old bean," Epsom interrupted. Amazingly, just like that, he was his old self again. "One doesn't expect to see what they have to say!"
"And a magician."
"The Great Gatsby," he explained. "He performs an F. Scott and Zelda vanishing act -"
"I don't care who his assistants are!" I interrupted. "All I know is you failed to keep my workers in line during my absence."
"That miserable bunch of crybabies!" he exclaimed. "I say, old man, what a pack of losers they've proven to be! The whole time you were gone, one bellyache after another. First it was 'We've no food!' Then, 'They've turned the water off!' And 'No electricity!' Or 'How will we wash our clothes?' Till, at last, the final straw, this very evening, when they began bad-mouthing you your very self, old bean, accusing you of all manner of unfair practices. I could bear no more, so I left. I wandered aimlessly till I happened upon a Magic Show. I went in. But with every trick I was reminded of their deceit, that they could talk against the most splendid man anyone ever had the pleasure of working for! I'm sorry, old bean, to have deserted shop like that. It won't happen again."
"I understand," I said in sympathy with all he had been through. How his sense of loyalty must have been piqued hearing me maligned. "Come," I said, "let's get to the bottom of this."
Downstairs, every vile accusation made against me was reiterated; every whining excuse for their deplorable conduct was put forth: they didn't have this, they couldn't get that, I had left them no money, etc, etc, etc - ad nauseum, till I simply had heard enough.
"No more!" I cried. "I have heard enough excuses for one day! As if I had had everything handed to me on a silver platter that I should turn around and do the same for everyone else! I didn't sit and mope and feel sorry for myself: I got out there and worked - yes, worked my tail off getting my daily bread! I didn't wait for someone to come along and feed me! And what I - just one lowly person - could do, how much more so could the bulk of you do! So don't you dare - don't you, any of you, dare - accuse me of not providing for your needs! Your needs are yours to provide for! I pay you a good wage; I expect you to save for a rainy day the way I did! Do you think for a moment if I had been less industrious, less thrifty, less prudent, I could have managed to get, let along keep, this roof over our heads? It took me a lifetime of hard work to acquire the capital I needed - and long, long hard hours working my fingers to the very bone so that I would have something worthwhile. And now I'm told I have failed to provide for my characters' needs - my characters, who without my toil would be nowhere, would be nothing, would be lost beggars standing on some dark cold street corner with their hands outstretched for a mere crust of bread! And this is the thanks I get for making your survival possible. May God forgive you. May God in heaven forgive you your trespasses. That's all I can say." With this, I returned to my study to examine my calendar of upcoming events, appearances, interviews, and so forth. It was a whirlwind, that calendar, flitting me here, there and everywhere - so much so that I cannot even begin to recount each entry. There is one, however, that must be told.
The Fictitious Masque, the prestigious and very colorful costume ball given annually by the Writers' Legion, our city's best known and best respected literary organization, was scheduled for the Saturday evening following my return. This would be the first year of my attendance. My invitation had arrived just before I left and, miraculously, had not been lost during my absence. It was sitting on my calendar pad exactly where I had left it, a pale blue note engraved in silver. I had just enough time to secure a costume. I went to Mr. George's to see what they had.
"Bon jour," said Mr. George. I no sooner explained my needs than he exclaimed "Ah! Monsieur will attend the Fictitious Masque, no?" That quickly he had perceived my intent.
"Do you have any suggestions?" I asked.
"Oui, monsieur, I have many more than any. For starters, I tell you what is big this year among writers. Goblins and ghouls, they are so very big; monsieur will be most put out, however, I am afraid, to discover none left in his size."
"No matter," I said, philosophically. "I would not prefer going as a ghoul anyway, for fear of being mistaken for a certain third rate hack. What else do you have - in fact, let me have anything diametrically opposite the ghouls."
Mr. George, a very tall man who, because he was, needed no stool to reach even the very highest hangers, rummaged among his costumes for one meeting my specifications, at last pulling a metallic looking, rather boring thing from the rack.
"This is our 21st Century Man model," he explained. "It is modeled after ACCC's latest personal computer, a mini-robot. What do you say?"
I thought about it then declined. "A great author cannot, even in jest, assume a non-human identity," I pointed out. "Please show me something else."
Several more followed and were rejected before I spotted one to my liking. "Let me see this," I said, pointing to something purple, silken and with not at all unbecoming black polka dots. I liked its thick, ruffled collar as well, and even the broad grinning face of the accompanying mask. There was a quaint little red nose which - believe it or not - actually lighted up when a button inside the costume was pressed, plus a most agreeable little musical instrument with a rubber bulb at one end which, when squeezed, made rather delightful sounds.
"I'll take this," I said. "What's it called?"
"This," said Mr George, "is reminiscent of the days when kings held court. It's actual name, mon ami, escapes me just now. Something to do with a Touchstone, I believe."
"Ah yes," I suddenly recalled a passage from my critical readings with Michelle of the Creatatorium. "Arnold's Touchstone Theory, if I'm not mistaken.
"Monsieur le customer is never quite mistaken," Mr. George reminded me.
The night of the great Ball, I went as Matthew Arnold, more or less. I may as well warn the wary reader right now: the Fictitious Masque, before it was all over, became the Masque of the Orange Horror. (I assume I am not being too cryptic when I say this.)
Upon entering, I examined each and every ghoul until, satisfied that my nemesis, the incredible It Without A Shred Of Talent, was not here, I relaxed and mingled with my peers. I even took a glass of champagne. Suddenly something on the far wall caught my eye. I strolled up to what I could now tell was a sign announcing "Writer of the Year Contest," the name to be selected by best and most apropos costume. Aha, I thought, if old Matt Arnold can't do it for me, no one can. So happy was I with my virtual fait accompli that I lighted my nose three times in rapid succession and honked my horn. This prompted a like response from across the room.
"Pardon me," I asked an attendant, "would you happen to know who that gentleman is over there?" I pointed to the author who had followed my lead.
"That one? In the clown suit? All I know is he's a best seller," the attendant replied and moved on.
The evening wore on, the Ball became more enchanted with each passing moment. The ghouls danced and strolled side by side with clowns and pink rabbits and fuzzy gray donkeys. The ballroom was as if skylit, twinkles like starlight covered the ceiling, an orchestra played waltz after waltz, the colors of bright talents co-mingled. Then the magic moment arrived. Midnight. The unmasking of the Writer of the Year. All votes were in.
"Ladies and gentlemen," announced the host, in a penguin suit, "from among all the contestants I now present the two who, far and away, elicited the most votes. Will the Orange Clown and the Purple Clown please step forward."
At once the man I had seen earlier ran to join the announcer on the band stand, honking his horn as he went. But no purple clown came forward. I was just recovering from my disbelief at not having been nominated when the host stepped from his stage, took me by the hand, and personally escorted me to stand beside the Orange Clown.
"Don't be shy," he said. So that was it: they had mistaken my costume for a clown suit. Then the announcer turned to me and asked for a few words.
"I'm very honored to be here," I said. Next he turned to my rival for Writer of the Year, asking him to address the audience. And, dear reader, my blood ran cold at his reply.
"Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" the orange costumed person spewed out in sing-song, leaving no doubt who - or what - lurked behind that silly clown mask. A round of applause burst from the audience; doubtless they felt all too keenly the awkward position they had been put in and had little choice but to respond approvingly, even if their hearts were not in it (for I could tell their hearts were not in it). As for me, I nearly slipped off the stage once I realized who my competitor was; luckily I caught myself on the microphone and thus spared myself injury upon insult. Following this most tasteless display on my rival's part (would anyone but an utter boor attempt so crude an eliciting of his audience's support?), the host summoned a young lady who had just entered the banquet hall forward.
"This, ladies and gentlemen, is Miss June, our liaison with the accounting firm of Pringle and Hayward, where the votes have been tabulated under the strictest secrecy. Miss June, do you certify that this envelope has not been tampered with in any way?"
"Yes, I do," she replied. "I've had it in my girdle all evening." Herewith she handed the envelope to the host upon demand.
"May I have the envelope please." He unsealed it, opened it, then, in a voice like divine thunder traversing a sacred canyon, he announced the results.
"The winner for Writer of the Year is...The Purple Clown!" God knows I was hardly surprised (how could it have been otherwise?); but, even so, I nearly swooned, so breathtaking was the announcement. Again, I caught myself on the microphone. Just imagine: Writer of the Year! And for my very first novel! My star could not be risen any higher, nor, to borrow T. S. Eliot's metaphor for greatness, my stock either. This was my evening.
To immense - almost deadening - applause, I stepped before the microphone to offer my humble acceptance. "Dearest of the Dear," I began, "it must surely be reckoned the high point of any man's career - indeed, of his very life - to be honored as you have honored me. And were I less than the great author you take me to be, I could not in good conscience accept this token of your esteem. I know that I have been compared to the great authors of the past - to Shakespeare, to Pirandello, To Colley Ciber, to Mrs Radcliffe, even to some relatively minor figures as someone named Sterne, and a Russian, Gogol. But I ought not accept such praise: I'm only me - which, as you've shown in making me Writer of the Year, is quite enough. Thank you, and may God preserve for all time your good judgment and excellent taste."
I no sooner finished speaking than someone of my many admirers cried out to me: "Blow your horn!" I at once complied. I blew my horn. This, as expected, prompted such merriment and a final round of applause. I started down off the stage when to my absolute shock a sickening voice came over the microphone.
"I accept your judgment," exclaimed the voice behind the Orange mask. "But there are more things afoot than dreamt of in your gentle philosophy, my precious darling fellow writers. And within the coming days and weeks I shall make it very clear whether or not you would trade but an ounce of hindsight for all the pretty purple in this room tonight. Thank you - as I'm sure the world will be saying to me in no time at all."
With this, the incredibly tasteless tirade ended; the Big Orange Horror leaped from the stage and rushed from the ballroom, like the maniac he was, leaving everyone gaping, gasping or both; and the Fictitious Masque winded down to a final tick of the clock.
"Go," said the host in his penguin suit, "the Masque is ended."
Naturally, all the talk within the literary community for many days afterward was of the bizarre, hateful, spiteful, vengeful and altogether inappropriate charges my rival had made, or rather, threatened at some unspecified date to make. I personally dismissed them as sour grapes. However, as the most despicable events ever to plague a human being very shortly showed, the threat was anything but idle.
For some time now - if I may take a moment to point out - my rival had been making tracks within the academic community (no doubt trying to secure an appointment as prestigious as my own); I thought nothing of it at first, even though I began to hear an occasional remark at an occasional cocktail party somewhat disparaging of my novel. Soon, though, the full import - and impact - of these furtive ventures became all too clear.
At a local university (other than the one where I taught), as it so happened, and, coincidentally, the very day my Chanceleer's seminar opened, a great literary forum was taking place. It's working title was "Ribbons and Bows," its theme the absolute and categorical primacy of technique and form over content and function in great literary works. Or, as the opening speaker, a Ms Marley, so succinctly put it, "It ain't what you say, it's how you say it." Various poets were called forth to demonstrate the truth of this axiom; some read Keats and Shelley, poorly, while others read the Yellow Pages, exquisitely. "Nuff said?" asked Ms Marley. "It ain't the present, it's the wrapping," she added as a corollary. Here she brought forth two gift boxes, one wrapped in plain brown shopping paper, one in the most elegant foil imaginable. The former contained a diamond pendant, the latter a moldy crust of bread. We all agreed we'd take the crust, properly packaged, over the jewel in a slip-shod package. Sophisticates right down to our toenails, every last one of us.
Next an eminent critic, literary editor of the prestigious quarterly, Toadies Schmodies, stepped to the podium, introduced by the moderator as Timothey PCB Marionette, esquire. His literary analyses were the final word in criticism; no hostess worthy of the name ever gave a dinner party but what his name was first on the guest list.
"Ye shall know greatness by its form," he said in a deep, low voice. "Just as the exquisite style of the upper class establishes their superior worth as human beings, just as the sophisticated breeding of the aristocracy claims the awesome weight of moral value, just as the ability to turn the resources of this planet into a quotient on the Stock Exchange, just as all these denote genuine character, so too does the form a literary work takes establish its greatness. Those poor misguided atavists who claim the content of a work must come first fail in their pedestrian simple mindedness to grasp that the form is, in the final rendering, the content. These simpletons are of a type with those who would cry 'Distribute wealth equally!' As if the common laborer who extracts ore from the earth deserves as great recompense as he who sits long into the nigh calculating the profits from his property! But enough of this! Precious breath and time must not be lost on trivialities, when the priorities have long since been established. Let us begin with an example recently brought to my attention, a book so hideous, so unprepossessing, so abysmally out of sync with the great principles upon which all modern literature sits, stands and moves and rests that the sooner it is dispatched to that great graveyard known as Popular Literature, the better for us all. I give you, ladies and gentlemen, tenth rate pulp!"
Marionette grabbed the book in question and, as if it were an insect, held it up.
I nearly fainted.
My gentlest, dearest, most beloved and (yes) adored reader: would that I could spare you this misery, this agony, this horror, for I well know your precious sensitivity (has it not been with me through all these adventures?). Dear reader, the book held up to such contempt...such ridicule...such abuse...was mine. Impossible as it is to believe, it was my novel this man's wrath was heaped upon. I scarcely knew what to think, let alone what to say or do, so I merely sat, like a sailor caught in a wind swept sea.
"Let us take it bit by bit," Marionette was saying. And to think: for so many years I had looked up to this man as the leader in his field; now here he was, about to demonstrate his utter incompetence.
Bit by bit, indeed, he did take it. "Where, pray tell, in all this verbiage," he asked to know, "is even the outline of an ellipse? Where are parallel dimensions? Where is structural hyperbole? Or mechanical rearrangement? Or conjurarial epicentrifugalisticism? Where are elapsed lyrics? Penuary versages? Constructist printanarios? Not to mention good old solid descriptions?"
"Hold it there!" I said. (Yes, divine reader, I at last found the courage to give vent to my artistic passions.) "Just hold it right there, Mr. Puppet!"
"Marionette!" the great critic corrected me.
"Marionette Schmarionette!" I savaged. "You can accuse me of every damn 'arity' in the book if you want - but by God don't you dare accuse me of not being descriptive enough! If I'm anything I'm that! Why, I've transcribed every last detail of my characters from head to toe, so far as decency would allow! One character, for instance - and at a crucial meeting - I caught with his hand down his pants. I would rip my manuscript to shreds before allowing such an obscenity in my masterpiece!"
"Pity you didn't rip your manuscript to shreds out of consideration for the public!" the critic had the gall to suggest. But I proceeded just as if I heard nothing.
"There's not a hair on any of their heads I don't have the entire shading of. Nor a breath they ever took that wasn't 'labored' or 'heavy' or 'ponderous' or 'deep' or any other conceivable quality. Nor a word uttered by anyone that didn't fairly exude their peculiarities. And if you don't believe me, you can just bloody well adjourn this kangaroo court to my house and see for yourselves!"
"You have the models themselves at your house?" I was asked.
"In the flesh!"
"Not stuffed, I trust?"
"No," I replied. "Only turkeys - and lacsidaisical critiques - get stuffed!"
Presently a motion adjourned the forum until everyone could reassemble at my house. Three-quarters of an hour later, the forum re-convened in my living room. My most excellent foreman, Epsom Salts, helped me serve beverages and light snacks.
"Um," I heard some say, "what a thoughtful host. Surely his book can't be all that bad."
"Yes," another agreed, "these snacks are delicious. If he can write half as delightfully as he serves his guests, I'll give him a try."
I was winning them over. Soon, if all went well, my genius would be thoroughly vindicated.
Marionette began at once chewing me out while the others dined in a more civilized fashion. "These characters right here - drawn at random: Torratio Plume, Sargent Helmet, Parapus Reem, Czarrel Fomish. Tell me: do they have moles, for instance, any or all of them?"
"Uhm. Well. Sort of," I hedged just a bit.
"Where are they described?"
"Uhm. Well. Actually, they had them removed just prior to the time the action takes place. Electrolysis."
"Ah, I see. Had them removed, eh? Very well, let's see. Call them in. Perhaps the scars will show, though you'd never know it reading this pulp."
"Scars?" I said, a bit scandalized. "Do you think I would allow anything to blemish my prose?"
The characters were summoned. Marionette inspected each one then paraded them before his peers.
"There they are, as big as life!" he announced as arrogantly as ever a being had spoken. "A mole on each face - yet you failed seeing them? How come? Or perhaps you deemed them unworthy of notice? Again I ask: where, sir, is your description?"
"Oh, I think I must have written it on the wrong page - or else the printer did! These things happen."
"Show me where the moles ended up!?
I searched, and searched, searched throughout my book, forward and back, but could find no trace of them. The closest I could come was an ink blotch on page 87. Of course Marionette only laughed at that, even when I explained it was symbolic.
"I think," he said at last, "we've seen enough here. Let us adjourn until tomorrow." He at once left.
"Here," I said to each of the others as they left, "take some of these light snacks home to the wife and kids.
"You know", they were soon all in agreement, "he's not a half bad novelist at that!"
My guests gone, I turned upon my characters. There was fury in my eyes and they could tell it.
"So," I began, "all of a sudden you've decided to grow moles where before you had none! Solely to embarrass me before my peers, no doubt - and after all I've done for you! What infernal ingrates!"
"We didn't just grow these," one of my betrayers tried to say.
"We've had them all along," said another.
"All along?" I cried. "And I suppose I simply missed seeing them?"
"We can't help it if you did," they had the gall to say right to my face.
"How dare you!" I was indignant. "A master of observation, and you dare suggest I failed seeing the very moles on your faces? How dare you?"
"We take the dare of desperation," someone, I failed to notice who, replied.
"Desperate, are you?"
"Yes, desperate. We are. For we have nothing, nor were we given anything, nor does it appear we shall ever be given our due."
"This ground, I think," I said, "has been covered. I have already proven you misguided on this point, yet you dare throw it before me again! Well, I will not hear it. Just because I have struggled and sacrificed and denied myself every conceivable pleasure, just because my thrift and my industry have reaped me much deserved rewards, while the rest of you have contented yourselves with subsisting on another man's crumbs and hand-outs - don't expect me to listen to your vile accusations, for no matter how busy I was at my craft, I was never too busy to notice a mole on someone's face and faithfully transcribe its every aspect. If you have moles now, either you had pasted them on or else they have just now grown. Unless, of course, you had covered them over. I wonder also how many other things you have deceived me about - and under my very roof! It is a terrible, terrible thing, and if you were children I should spank each and every one of you."
"Go ahead," said someone.
"Yeah, go ahead," another joined in. Soon they were all practically demanding a whipping. A couple even turned their backsides toward me; one had the effrontery to lower his trousers.
"Go on, if it turns you on, whip us. We're flexible. We adopt. If you want masochists for your next novel, it's alright with us. Go ahead."
Ha! I thought. As if I'd ever employ such characters a second time.
"I cannot be a party to such as this," I said. "Please make yourselves decent and go to your rooms. I have had a long, hard day; I'm going to my study to relax; and I want no noise. There will be no watching of television tonight. Epsom!" I called. "please remove the fuse which controls this box."
"Right away, old bean!" my foreman obeyed immediately.
"But that's not fair," my characters whined and complained. "Masterpiece Theater is on tonight. It's Chapter 8000 of The Red Badge of Courage!"
"I don't care if it's Chapter 8 million of The Blue Beard of Cowardice!" I replied, "there will be no TV tonight - period. And just be glad I'm as generous and compassionate as I am or I'd bloody well take you up on your earlier offer. Good night!"
"Good night Charley McCarthy!" someone exclaimed. I turned to see who had spoken and, as I did, I caught sight of one of the strangest things I had ever seen. My foreman, Epsom Salts, a man (as the reader well knows) of immense self-possession, on his way back from his chore in the basement (where my fuse box was located), had suddenly turned pale as a ghost. I had no idea what caused it. I muttered something about witch hunts, turned, and ascended to my suite. It sounded to me as if someone had slapped someone else, but I could not be sure, and, at that point, cared even less.
I slept very well, either despite or because of the day's many adversities; and, while I slept, it rained. All night it rained. I awoke later than I meant to: my alarm didn't go off (only later did I discover that the same fuse which fed the television fed my alarm clock as well). Glancing at my wristwatch, a very good quartz model which never needed winding, a gift from my newly organized fan club, I was appalled to discover it not eight o'clock but nearly ten. I leaped out of bed and hurriedly got ready. In a flash I had breakfasted, called for a taxi and, informing my workers I would be going out, made for the front door. I opened it and, dear reader, had I taken but one step it may well have been my last.
As I said, it had indeed rained last night and, upon attempting to get outside, I was confronted with the fruits of that heinous activity. A veritable flood sat outside - and I mean just outside - my front door. The water was up to my very threshold, all three steps leading from my porch were inundated. Little leaves, together with dead bugs, floated by. What was worse, this stream (for stream it was) was some five or six feet wide; there was no possibility of jumping across. I closed the door and ran from window to window to assess the situation. From my various perspectives I deduced the gully so skillfully engineered to facilitate runoff to have become deranged, its purpose thwarted by a malevolent nature which had evidently taken its rational and quite scientifically correct measurements and expounded, as it were, on them, creating instead of anything sensible and useful a raging torrent. Leave it to nature to try and improve upon what man's genius has wrought! And in the process, create a nightmare. I could no more ford this stream than I could fly. I was forced to cancel the taxi and place an emergency call to Zimrod Zardon.
"Hello, this is a recording," a voice, which I recognized as the great Zardon's, announced. "Please state your name and business."
"Roland Domby here, and what I need, most urgently, is -" I was cut off.
"Oh Domby: how are you?" the voice, ostensibly still the recording, inquired. "And what is it you need?"
I hesitated. "Speak right up, Domby, I'm just here trying to get my phone-mate programmed. I've had to wait three whole days for someone to call so I could record my message."
"Perhaps," I suggested, "you could have recorded it ahead of time. That way you'd have the recording ready when you get the call."
"But how would I know what to say until someone called?" he wondered. "And suppose they had gotten the wrong number, and there was no one to correct their error? They might have left a message with the wrong Zimrod Zardon, a message which, by the wrong party, I could not possibly hope to interpret correctly."
"Are there other Zimrod Zardons?" I couldn't help asking.
"I'm told it's a fairly common name," came the reply. "My cousin says there are thousands of people with his name."
"What is his name?" I asked.
"John Doe," Zardon replied.
"At any rate, it works out good that you've answered. I am in urgent need of your services," I said. "Can you come right over?"
"Yes, I can. Let me just leave a message on my phone-mate and I'll be right over."
"Half an hour later he arrived, in his green Studebaker. Meanwhile, I had found a window which did not overlook the water (luckily the gully seemed to extend only halfway around the house); I managed to climb out and was waiting to greet Zardon. A brief hello and he immediately started assessing the situation. He got a number of delicate instruments out of his vehicle and began measuring.
"Hmm," he asked after a very few moments, "do you have a piece of old cardboard? About yea big."
"Inside the house," I said. "There's bound to be some. How do we get to it though?" He thought a moment then advised me to call to someone inside, which I did. Presently a big piece of cardboard was thrown outside, clear of the gully.
"I want you to take this, set it where I tell you," he instructed, "and, when I say, slowly walk around on it, making sure you hit every corner. Meanwhile I'll be testing the air invectorals, the coronal paranorals, the territorial impurities and, if I can find my megagadget, the planetary peculiarities."
As we were doing this, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, ordering me to do the same. "Holy beachheads!" he cried. "Let me run get my ground to surface equilibrium diffuser." He came back carrying a shovel; he began to dig, just South of the gully. He then took up a handful of soil and tested it with half a dozen instruments.
"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed. "Domby, you can pack up your sorrows if you like. Because, Mister: you're a rich man! A mighty rich man. A veritable Midas Muffler. You see this? this unimposing little handful of soil? Well, it just happens to be chuck full of silicon! You, my friend, are sitting on top of what just may very well be one of the richest deposits of silicon outside Silicon Valley, California! Maybe even richer! Now, unless I miss my guess, there's an underground river running squarely underneath your property. I would surmise it brings in sand from the coast and because of some sort of contra-tusional abutmentarity, the sand filters out, remains on your property. If I were you, I'd call in ACCC at once to get an estimate on extracting the silicon, for in my humble judgment you've got the makings here of about half a billion first class computer chips."
This was of course wonderful news, but I still wondered about the little above ground river half surrounding my house.
"I tell you, Domby," Zardon said, "it's going to get worse before it gets better. I've seen these gullies before, seen what they can do. I've seen them undermine the foundations of a whole housing project. I've yet to figure out why. But you don't question first principles; and gullies or swampy land is the primary role in the land game. I've worked too many years with Barnhide, Legitt and Schoop-Schoop not to know that. I suggest you get this silicon harvested soon as you can, then I'd give serious thought to moving out."
I said I'd do that.
I got a ride with Zardon into the city, which saved me a trip back through the window to call a taxi. Frightfully late for my appointment, I finally arrived at my publisher's. This was to be a High Strategy meeting; my career, my very future, were the topics of discussion. Present already, and in the midst of a heated debate, were my agent, my attorney, my banker and my public relations expert. Timpony, my publisher, was also present, it being his conference room; he was standing in the middle of the room holding what, on closer inspection, I realized was a pen; he was examining it most scrupulously.
"Ah, Domby," he called when, looking up, he saw me enter, "you're an intelligent man. Tell me: do you have any idea what this thing is? My secretary handed it to me not half an hour ago. Now we already know it's not a book, it's too compact. It's not a flashlight either; it gives no light whatsoever. I've just never seen anything quite like it. I've searched my memory but it does not compute. What would you say it is?"
"It's a fountain pen, I believe," I said.
"Hmm. A fountain pen, you say. An odd name. For drawing water, no doubt. It must work on a suction principle. But what a little bit it must hold. Wouldn't a cup do ever so much better? A strange instrument."
Timpony resumed his examination of the pen, clicking the point open and then clicking it shut, over and over, over and over. I made my way to where the others were plotting my career.
"We were just discussing your new promotional campaign. Since your stock is already at an all time high, whereas your book is not yet doing quite as well as we'd hoped, this is what our strategy'll be: every one hundred shares of stock is going to yield the shareholder an interest in your book as well. 'Stock in Rodon: what it's all about' - that'll be our new campaign slogan. We'll run ads in all the journals. In fact, what we'd like you to consider at this point is divesting your interest in your literary endeavors en toto. Sell out completely, à là Appalachia: you write 'em, yes, but your buyers reap the rewards. This way, every single book you write can be a tax write-off - whether it sells or doesn't sell. That's what we achieve by merging your literary with your business enterprise. Stock in Rodon, Inc., is also stock in the fictional creations of its chairman. And that is what it's all about! What do you say?"
"Sounds great to me," I replied.
"There's just one more thing we need to consider before we adjourn," my agent said. "It's the matter of your characters. What we've decided is to arrange to rent them out to other authors. We'd like you to think it over and let us know by the end of the week."
I promised I would.
I proceeded home; climbed through the side window; was momentarily mistaken for a burglar; restored my rightful identity as master of the house; then, as all my characters were already assembled (misperceiving a need to protect the premises from intrusion), I called a meeting to announce my decision on my agent's proposal.
"I have summoned you all here," I began, but was immediately heckled - an old, and very tiresome, ploy.
"It was you qua burglar who summoned us, your honor!" someone pointed out, and though technically correct, still I resented the interruption.
"He ain't no burglar," another insisted: "burglars don't come in the window to deliver messages!"
"I said qua burglar! Qua burglar!"
"That still makes him a G. D. burglar, don't it?"
"I ain't no burglar!" I insisted, perhaps a bit too forcefully since it left me wide open to a charge of despoiling my own syntax.
"I say, old bean, ain't ain't in no dictionary!" The wording, of course, was vintage Epsom Salts - incredibly, though, it was not his voice. When I turned to him, he merely shrugged, as if to say he knew no more than I who had spoken.
"Burglar or no burglar," I said, "I have a message to deliver! And it's straight from me!"
"From your heart?"
"From my heart, my mind, my soul, my spleen, my stomach -!
"Your suspenders too?"
"If I had them, yes, them too!"
"Even from your privates?" a smutty voice inquired.
"Keep the filth out of this!" I insisted.
"Your privates want washing?"
"Enough of this! I'm here to advise you - all of you - put you on notice as it were - that I have decided to rent you out to a vast host of other - lesser - authors. It's a good business proposition; and, especially, now that I've made you famous, I intend to make some money off of you. Ah, that is, to help defray the costs of...ah...of...ah - of the improvements I contemplate making in our home. Yes, that's it: of all the improvements in your working conditions."
"What kind of improvements?"
"I'm drawing up a list very shortly."
"But you're not even on the best seller list yet!" someone had the nerve to point out.
"That's because...it's because..." - and it was Epsom this time -
"I suspect, old bean," came Epsom's voice to my rescue, "it's because you've deliberately held copies off the market to increase the demand. Supply and demand, what?"
"Absolutely," I concurred. "When we're ready, we'll make the best sellers - never doubt that. There's nothing the right advertising can't accomplish."
"Can it make a silk purse out of a sow's ear?" someone asked. I was ready like that with my reply.
"They made Silly Jilly a best seller, didn't they? If they could sell him to the public, they can sell anyone!"
"Even you?" some Philistine asked.
"Even Silly Jilly I think you mean!" I countered the vile suggestion.
"Speak of the devil!" a voice, then a flurry of voices, exclaimed. I turned to where they were looking. Now, dear reader, I already knew my house was haunted - but who would have guessed the prince of demons would be climbing through my window?
"What the hell!" I cried at the hideous abomination. For there, coming through the very window I had not half an hour earlier come through, were two policemen, the wretched critic Timothy P. C. B. Marionette and - of all the intrusive monsters - none other than Silly Jilly himself! To think that a man's very home was no longer safe from plague and doom! I nearly screamed, so beastly was the sight of this heinous assault.
"Who goes there?" I demanded.
"Mister Ro-land Dom-by, I presume?" one of the policemen asked in a raspy, yet somehow oily, voice, mispronouncing my name with a misplaced accent on the 'land' of Roland.
"I am him," I replied. "He! I am he! He he he he he!" I will not offend the reader's sensibilities by relating who said this.
"We are here," the policeman said in a voice so slow I thought he was being prompted somehow, "to serve you with this warrant."
"Warrant?" I asked.
"Warrant for your arrest on a charge of plagiarism," said the other policeman.
"What if I weren't here?" I speculated.
Both policemen thought it over, consulted one another in private. "If you weren't here, we couldn't serve our warrant," they admitted.
"You'll warrant me that?"
They consulted again. "In that case, since you weren't here, we'll summons you."
"By what authority?" Another consultation.
"By authority of Judge Bogglemeinster, who you'll appear before," they replied.
"I will appear before no 'who,'" I vowed. "It will be 'whom' or it will be no one."
"Then Mrs Bogglemeinster will hold court," the policemen both said, upon which they thrust the summons/warrant into my hand.
"Deliver this to yourself when you arrive," they advised. Then, perceiving the linguistic predicament they had gotten themselves into, they hastily said "See you in Court!"
"They shoot plagiarists, don't they?" questioned the infamous critic, Marionette, as he slid out of my window.
"By! By! By! By! By!" came the last voice to exit.
"So it's plagiarism, is it?" I mused. "Well, we shall we who is the plagiarist around here!"
Naturally, I was stunned by the absurd charge; stunned, as well, that our great legal system could be made to serve such an evil end as hauling me before the Courts to prove my innocence; stunned, then, at root, that my sincerity, let alone originality, could ever be questioned. But I had faith: in our way of life to vindicate me, in my great attorney, E. Elgood Elkins, and - combining the two - in my ability to make the legal system serve my interest. In truth, I looked forward to my day in Court - particularly, after consulting with my public relations expert, who I telephoned immediately.
"Wonderful!" Big Bob exclaimed. "Superb! Couldn't be better! Nothing could have better served our interest - from a literary stand point, that is - than to have just this sort of scandal facing us. By the time this is finished - and I've no doubt Elkie can vindicate you - there won't be a soul in this country who hasn't heard of your novel! Nor one who won't rush out and buy it either! Domby, I guarantee you: by the end of your trial, we'll be number one of the best sellers!"
"Well, that's some consolation," I agreed. "I just hope my reputation emerges unscathed."
"Yes, that's a point to consider alright."
My attorney too was quick to fix upon the issue of my great literary reputation. "We'll sue his pants right off!" he promised. "What he costs you with the critics and the public, we'll more than make up for in dollars and cents!" he vowed. I was quite relieved to see how much he had my interest at heart. Two days later a subpoena arrived, demanding my original manuscript. I referred the matter to my attorney, who advised me to comply. A deep pang of sadness struck at my heart and soul to see this, the very fruit of my labor, go out the window in alien, as it were uncivilized, hands. Later that same day excavation began. (I mention it in the same paragraph with the abduction of my manuscript because the deep holes being dug so nearly paralleled the emptiness of my literary treasure trove.)
Zimrod Zardon had contracted with Pinch and Punch Excavation and Building Contractors to assess the extent of my property's silicon deposits and, once the survey was complete, to commence digging operations.
To my surprise, my realtors Barnhide, Legitt and Schoop-Schoop accompanied the excavation crew. "Now, of course," they took turns apprising me, "we, as sole real estate agents, retain, always, the mineral rights to whatever properties we sell."
"Sand is not today classified as a mineral," Zardon informed them.
"S-s-s-s-sand?" a suddenly white-faced trio questioned, in unison. "You say s-s-s-s-sand?"
"Others may say silicon, but, yes, I say sand," said Zardon.
"The kind of sand that...s-s-s-s-shifts?" the realtors asked.
"The very same."
Schoop-Schoop fainted dead away and had to be revived; Legitt stepped aside with a gagging spell; and Barnhide, grown ashen and almost retching, explained how they had "gotten burned on some bogus waterfront property which, before the first condo was ever erected, sank into the sea. We like to never sold it," he confessed. "It almost ruined us. Now, we grow numb if we even pass a sandbox. You...you keep the s-s-s-s-sand. Just keep it. Keep it out of our hair. Just...keep it. Come on, boys, let's beat it!" The three took off running. I of course applaud their commitment to jogging - as my friend and neighbor the jogger no doubt will too as soon as his ankle heals.
"You won't find three like them again in a hundred years," observed the great engineer, Zimrod Zardon with admiration in his voice, "not even in America! God how I miss that country!"
"How true," I seconded his estimation of my realtors, though not his reminiscing. My land was surveyed and, upon its conclusion, digging began. By the time the day of my trial rolled around, half a dozen huge mounds of earth had been extracted and sat throughout my grounds, waiting to be sifted for the precious silicon. And, miraculously, as one assault upon nature so often counters another, the ever deepening and expanding gully about my house had all but dried up. I could come and go just like anyone else, by the front door. Furthermore, Zardon assured me I would have no more trouble with the gully, for just as soon as all the silicon was separated from the sand, the digs would be used to fill it up. I was to be "home free," as he put it.
"Just in case I'm wrong," he added, "and that can only be if I've miscalculated the damoclesian drop and dip, a thing I've done a thousand times - give me a call, I'll come bail you out."
Reassured as to my physical state, I prepared to go do battle for my spirit. I would have, dear reader, my day in Court.
It occurred to me that character witnesses would be a great help to my case. Needless to say, I had already apprised my banker, my publisher, my attorney, my agent, my engineer, my realtors, the green-grocer, my public relations expert, my numerologist, my dear friend Gregory Tchoo, and my old friend and arbiter Tiersford of my dilemma and they had vowed, one and all, to come to my aid. Even so, I decided to procure yet more witnesses in my behalf; so I summoned my workers.
"I'd like you to be character witnesses for me at my trial," I informed them. "There will be a good bonus in it for you, since the trial is bound to increase my book's sales," I added - not as a bribe (I need hardly bribe anyone to verify my good name) but simply as a statement of consequence.
"We could be no other kind of witness," they assured me.
"Then I can count on you?"
"We're behind you 1000%!" they declared.
"Well, 100 will do," I said. Dearest reader, I don't trust exaggeration.
The day of my trial arrived. (Incidentally, I have made no mention of the great seminar chaired by the Chanceleer of my University: this, because I attended only the final two sessions and though it was fascinating beyond all description and, I might add, did my work its due, modesty forbids my giving an extended account of it. So let me just say that even I was amazed how many levels the critical eye could discern in my work. But then, so much of what a great author writes proceeds from the subconscious that it quite often takes the combined faculties of many others to make something of it.)
It had rained early in the morning; fortunately, though, a light rain which, while it filled the gully around my house and seemed to expand it somewhat, did not render it impassable. Wearing galoshes, I waded out of the front door right through; I did, for safety sake, hold up my pant legs. I wore a brown suit with beige tie and pocket handkerchief; my shirt was pale blue. An honest man, it is generally believed, does not worry about his appearance so, in selecting attire appropriate to the occasion, I endeavored to effect an unconcern, almost to the point of casualness.
Mrs Bogglemeinster's Courtroom faced that of her husband. Both were county judges of the highest caliber. As I looked out among the gallery, I saw each of my dear friends, except for Gregory Tchoo, who was away on a junket to Tahiti; plus, to my immense delight, a couple of friends I had neglected inviting; there, the third row back, was Sister Mary Margarine and, beside her, the most reverend Pastor Goodness. I nodded in their direction then went to my seat at the defense table. Presently the prosecution arrived, a shyster-looking person named, if name could ever be less apropos, Justin Lawful. (My dear reader well knows how un-lawful this whole charade was!)
"All rise!" the Clerk of Court announced. Everyone complied. I thought for a moment I perceived a buzzing, as of a fly, but then it went away. Out stepped Judge Beenie Bogglemeinster from her chambers. A small, gray haired woman, rather thin, with huge eyeglasses, the Judge made for her bench, tapped the gavel, announced "Court is in session" (her pronunciation distinctly New England-ish) then seated herself. She explained to all present what the charges were, against whom they were made, by whom they were registered, and, briefly, how it was that she and not her husband now presided.
"A conflict of interest was charged by the defendant - which, I hasten to add, will not affect my impartiality in the leastwise. Proceed." The charges were read by Justin Lawful (as if anyone needed having them repeated). A whole slew of witnesses were called to testify against me (none of whom made any sense, so I will not waste good paper repeating their slander, except for the final witness, a scientist whose testimony was so bizarre I feel it belongs in such a context as this mock trial).
"Dr. Precious Peter, metallurgist, bio-chemist, micro-biologist, anthropologist, archeologist," he was summoned.
"Do you swear" etc? he was asked.
"I do," he answered. "I have completed Carbon-14 dating of the two manuscripts before this Court - the marked 'Exhibit A,' the one marked 'Exhibit B.' I have proven almost inconclusively that Exhibit A was written later than - that is to say, subsequent to - Exhibit B."
At this the Prosecution asked the Clerk of Court to please remove the brown wrapping from each Exhibit so that their identities might be made public at last. This was done. There was a gasp as the two were revealed. Mine was "A," my rival and slanderer's was "B." Suddenly I heard buzzing again. This time it was followed by a scream from the gallery - but a foreign sounding scream. Sister Mary Margarine rushed forward.
"Your honor," she pleaded, "please pardon me but they're here - the demons. They're in this very Courtroom. They've come here directly from the sewer."
"You are in contempt!" Judge Bogglemeinster cried when, all of a sudden, the pages of my manuscript leaped upon her bench and began dancing.
"Order in the Court!" the Judge cried, banging her gavel, at which the pages returned to their original place. "Bailiff will remove this charged manuscript from the Court!" she ordered. It went peacefully; at least these were law-abiding demons.
"No doubt," explained Dr. Peter, "a temporary after-effect of the radioactive process used to date it." Sister Mary Margarine returned to her seat to stand watch.
Not even this unsettling experience could overshadow the enormity of what had just been presented in evidence: that my manuscript was written at a later date than that other one. But how? When it was so clear that it was mine which was plagiarized? Did I not determine my pages to have been disturbed? Some of my best passages pilfered? And were there not unmistakable traces of the dastardly act in the book I perused at Dalywamples the day of my rival's autograph party? How then could my manuscript have been pre-dated by Its? I absolutely could not account for it...unless. Oh no, it was too preposterous. Unless... Oh no, no, banish the thought. Unless... Besides, how could I possibly even in a billion years confuse my prose with...with...Its! No, it was just too absurd to think It had stolen my passages (as I had proven It had) not to purloin my prose but instead to substitute for it prose of Its own just so as to later accuse me of plagiarism! No, no, it simply could not be. Why, the contrast between mine and Its would have leaped out at me like a ghost from a machine. Not to have known my own prose? Not to recognize an inferior copy for what it was? Not to remember what I had written with my own pen? No. It was absurd. Why, even those spirits could not have so fooled me, let alone a hack! No, banish the thought. Banish it at once.
And yet...
"I find," Judge Bogglemeinster was rendering her decision even as I was musing, my own witnesses having come and gone almost unheeded by me, "there is insufficient evidence to uphold the charge of plagiarism. However, I must insist that, since the evidence of the manuscripts is quite compelling, the defendant recant his style. This will constitute, in effect, an act of Court Settlement. Defendant, Mr. Domby, do you accept the Court's finding? Will you comply?"
I stood up and stood my ground. "I do not, and will not!" I declared most emphatically. "My style is not mine to recant."
"In that event I find you in contempt of this Court until such time as you publicly recant," Judge Bogglemeinster said.
"The devil's ass will freeze first!" was said, but I swear it was not me who said it, though it was indeed my voice.
"Court is adjourned!" cried the Judge, banging her gavel. Suddenly the gavel was wrested from her hand and began banging hard on Exhibit B. A most tasteful demon, if demon it was.
I had hoped to spare my illustrious readers the more sordid details of my trial; but perhaps it's best to let you see for yourselves what a truly dreadful place this worst of all possible worlds really is. Besides which, my insatiable appetite for true and accurate description serves better than any conscience to force my hand to write every last detail, no matter how painful my readers may find it. Dear reader, you cannot escape reality - in this case, the awful reality of witnessing your esteemed and loving author humiliated by a bunch of crass jackasses parading themselves as literary critics.
Half a score of witnesses for the prosecution were brought before the bench, sworn in (where they ought to have been sworn at), and asked to give a rendering of my novel. It would sicken the strongest of stomachs to hear what was said - such lies, and slanders, and misinterpretations have never been recorded in all the history of mankind. Nor shall I record them here in their entirety nor in the spoken voices of their renderers; rather, by presenting myself in cross-examination - for, dear readers, you may be sure I took the stand in my own behalf - I will give ample implication of what was said against me.
I was sworn in, asked to tell all the truth and nothing but. "I am an author," I replied, "how can I but tell the truth?" My cross-examination began. Justin Lawful sauntered over to where I sat in the Seat of Truth (though, indeed, as an artist, every place I sit is a Seat of Truth). He looked me in the eye; he wore a constant squint, so that his already small beady blue eyes all but vanished.
"Mr Domby," he addressed me in an oily voice, "have you ever heard of a gentleman named Bill Shakespeare?"
"Yes, I have - who hasn't?"
"Just answer the question. And have you ever heard of a gentleman called Hamlet?"
"I have," I replied.
"To be or not to be, that is the question," he then said. "Do you recognize this line? Because it comes from your novel, page 27, third paragraph down."
"I recognize it."
"It also comes from Act 3 Scene 1 of Shakespeare's 'Hamlet.' How do you account for that coincidence?"
"It sometimes happens that two authors have the same thought at the same moment."
"Do you know how long Shakespeare's been dead?"
"It's been awhile," I admitted.
"Tell me: you heard what Professor Rimplefard said concerning the author Sterne. What is your opinion of 'Tristram Shandy'?"
"It sounds Greek to me."
"And Smollett's 'Humphrey Clinger'?" Lawful asked. "Was Dr. Snidintie right in perceiving traces of that work in yours?"
At that very instant Snidintie was picking his nose in the gallery. I made a face. "He perceives traces of things in the oddest places," I answered.
"And is it likewise an oddity that Mrs. North-Withers-Partridge-Havesham, the acknowledged expert on Hitchcock films, has detected scenes from 'Psycho' in your fourth chapter? And 'The Birds' in chapter eight?"
"She could not be more mistaken," I replied; "there is nothing psychological about chapter four. And as for the eighth chapter, the only birds you'll find there are a couple of ravens sitting on a pallid bust of Pallas high above the chamber door. Period."
"Yes, those ravens: they're what bothered Amhurst Ambrose, aren't they? Rather Poe-etic, I believe he said. And tell me: do your ravens say 'Nevermore at any time?"
"They crow and they go."
It went on like this nearly an hour, one silliness after another, until finally he had exhausted all the inane slanders leveled against my work. I was excused. And since the reader already knows the outcome of the trial I will say no more of it, except to note a most unfortunate consequence arising from that verdict. Notwithstanding that I had been exonerated, save for being asked to recant my style (which I can no more do than fly), my printer, having gotten word of the proceedings, promptly initiated proceedings of his own. Against me.
It saddens me even more to think of that untoward lawsuit. I simply cannot account for it. I learned of it from my attorney, who telephoned me one rainy night not long after my acquittal.
"Elkins here," he greeted me. "We've got a problem, Domby - a big problem."
"What is it?" I asked, concerned at a sense of alarm I detected in his voice.
"Your printer: he's just this minute decided to bring a million dollar lawsuit against you."
"What on earth for?" I was stunned.
"He feels, evidently, that you've damaged - indeed, all but ruined - his reputation."
"Me? How could I ruin his or anyone's reputation?"
"Through what he terms your 'careless inconsequence.' I take it to mean a lack of logical sequence to your recent activities. He seems to feel your having been charged with plagiarism all but invalidates your contract with him. What it's done is put him in the extremely awkward place of appearing to have been an accessory to the crime," Elkins explained.
"But there was no crime!" I protested. "They found me innocent."
"Ah, but the scent of guilt yet lingers. The taint. The suspicion in everyone's mind. He fears no one will come to him seeking to have his work published. His suit charges that you will have robbed him of an estimated three-quarters of a million in future business. Plus a good quarter million in mental anguish. He feels his good graces have been mocked, his trust all but destroyed, his love of fine literature seriously impaired. In short, he feels that your carelessness in allowing the sequence of events in your manuscript to be manipulated by outside forces, not to mention your apparent oblivion to the substitutions being made right under your very nose, have created a major problem for his up to now lucrative enterprises. Now if you want," Elkins offered, "I can try for an out of Court settlement."
"I'm not anxious to get back in the Courtroom," I admitted. "Besides, I've got - if you recall - quite possibly the single most important appearance of my career coming up soon, though a definite date has not been fixed."
"Yeah, that's right, I'd forgotten. Big Bob did finally manage to get you booked on Perry Sim Small's late night show, or one of those talkie-walkie things, didn't he? Okay, that pretty much makes an out of Court settlement mandatory. Look, Domby, I've got to go now, another client's on the line, I'll let you know if it's agreeable."
Amazingly, Elkins phoned me back in barely five minutes to let me know that it was acceptable to my printer to settle out of Court. I was relieved, naturally, but still reluctant to have to pay even as little as a quarter million. I decided to pay my printer a visit; quite possibly my powers of persuasion could reduce it still further. When I arrived at the printer's, I found the whole place surrounded by police cars. And just as I was stepping from my taxi, who should I see being led, handcuffed, from the main entrance, but my printer, of all people! I rushed forward.
"What dreadful miscarriage of justice is being perpetrated here," I inquired of the detective, "that so worthy an entrepreneur is being dragged from his own company practically in chains?"
"Your worthy entrepreneur here, Mack, is under arrest on a charge of pornography, five hundred counts. We've seized no less than thirty naked models inside - they're being dressed right now then they too will be handcuffed and brought in. Quite possibly the biggest pornography ring in the country. The publishing business ain't never been so good!"
They pushed my printer into a squad car and drove off. Momentarily about thirty more - men and women - were brought out and similarly dispatched. I heard one of the prisoners referred to as Donkey Hunk, and one looked vaguely familiar to me: I think he was my character who had carried the mirror in assistance to the great Zimrod Zardon then, later, resigned. At least if he'd have remained in my employ he wouldn't be on his way to police headquarters for a mug shot!
As if it were not enough to have to watch my printer being led away in handcuffs - although, in truth, some good inadvertently came of it: namely, the lawsuit he attempted to bring against me was not only settled out of Court, it was dropped altogether, there being no longer a reputation to be damaged by anything my own day in Court might have engendered - not only, I say, did this strange sequence of events come to plague me, but I had barely arrived at my publisher's with the terrible news than my attorney, already there, confronted me with yet another potential problem.
"Elkins," I said, "how fortunate finding you here."
"Ah," observed my publisher, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, "you were looking for him too. Did you think to look in the Upstairs Lounge? That's where I would have looked. Then the lobby would have been my second choice. Finally, in quiet desperation, I would have gone to Bartleby's. Luckily I can stop looking, for he showed up on my very doorstep."
"Then I suppose you've heard about our great friend the printer?" I asked. (Incredibly, I still did not know his name.)
"Have no fear, "Timpony said, "Elkie assures me this won't affect next month's Buns and Boobs."
"Of course, you understand," Elkins interjected, "the lawsuit against you will be quietly dropped."
This, as the reader might well imagine, was a relief to hear.
"However," my attorney went on, "a somewhat more serious matter has arisen, one that requires our immediate attention. The Library of Congress has been asked to consider issuing a recall of your novel."
"A recall?" I asked in disbelief.
"Library of Congress? Timpony inquired. "Whatever does Domby's book have to do with libraries, or with Congress? I distinctly recall our having removed all revolutionary passages. Didn't we, Domby?"
"We certainly did."
"Where did we put them?"
"We spliced them out, that's all I know," I replied.
"They evidently found their way to the public anyway. Tell me, Elkie: they can't be traced to me, can they?" Timpony inquired.
"Both of you," he said, "fail to understand the nature of the threatened recall. It has nothing to do with what was in the novel, but rather with what was left out. Let me explain. There was, in one printing - I don't know which - a page inadvertently left out. There could be as many as 20,000 copies on the market at this very moment without a page 84. We have no way of knowing which copies they are, or where they were shipped. Consequently, all are suspect."
"How did they discover the defect?" I asked.
"Yes," Timpony echoed my puzzlement, "how would anyone but the author know if a page were missing?"
"Well, for one thing, the numbering would be off," Elkins explained. "However, that's not the problem. It's much more serious. It seems, gentlemen, that at least one unsuspecting reader found the missing page to be -"
"Found it?" asked Timpony. "Where?"
"You misunderstand," Elkins replied. "The page was not found in the sense of location but in the sense of making a discovery based upon its omission."
"What," Timpony asked, somewhat peeved, "readers discover things because a page is missing and they then complain about it? Well, if you ask my opinion, such readers are fools - no better than the general public!"
"Please, let me finish. The reader - this particular one anyway, we know of no others yet - found the missing page to be absolutely crucial to his, or her, I don't know the sex of the person -"
"There is a way to tell," Timpony suggested, "even with transvestites."
"True," Elkins agreed. "This particular person, however, finding the missing passages crucial to an understanding of the novel, apparently suffered a mild nervous breakdown. His or her level of angst was measured to have risen by a quarter. And now depression has set in and the reader is consulting psychics for the missing passages. A Bogdon Buchner - that's an acquaintance of yours, isn't it, Domby?"
"Indeed he is: one of my dearest friends."
"He was consulted." Elkins reflected a moment. "This could be just the break we need," he mused. "See, what it is: this pesky reader -"
"They're all pesky," Timpony suggested.
"- this reader is the one who initiated the recall petition. Now the way I see it - and here's where your friendship with Buchner comes in - we've got to either discredit this reader outright or else somehow convince him the page has materialized, that it was projected astrally or some such nonsense into his copy. Make him think, far from being shortchanged, he was selected for a special edition - a psychic first edition or something. And since he's a little daffy to start with or he wouldn't give a shit if what he's bought is defective or not, we just may be able to play on his superstition. If not, we'll simply have to hold him up to public ridicule."
"That's rather harsh, isn't it?" I asked, for, as my readers well know, I am humane if I'm anything. "Suppose it sends him into a deeper depression? or raises his angst another quarter?"
"It's either that or say goodbye to fame and fortune," Elkins replied.
My dearest, angelic, all knowing and supremely understanding readers: life offers no easy choices. What could I do? Wallow in sentimentality, let that lowest of all emotions, pity, rule my life? or consider, instead, the multitude - the millions whose lives my genius was foreordained to enrich? If ever there was a time to put personal considerations aside, this was it.
"Maybe we won't have to make a jackass of him," I suggested. "Maybe my dear friend Buchner and I can work something out. Maybe even get the fool to think it was Sister Mary Margarine's demons who removed his page 84! What do you think?"
"Sounds good to me," said Elkins. "How about you, Timpony?"
"Me? Oh, I was just wondering which pages you'd put 84 next to. You'll need a perfect match or it won't work."
Not to worry, dear reader, we got a perfect match, Buchner and I. At our séance.
"And that's the problem as it now stands," I explained. "Can you help me?"
"Anyone who would forcibly keep your genius from the public deserves to be snookered," said Buchner, adding that "a good snookering is nothing like a con. I don't believe it's necessary to bilk the public when so many friendly spirits can be coaxed from my crystal ball."
The séance was arranged for Wednesday at 9 P.M. I arrived early. Buchner and his assistant, Eitnein, both wearing flowing robes, the former's silver, the latter's brass, and red turbans, were attending to last minute details, such as making taut a piece of wire extending from the table to the room divider toward the rear of the room.
"The spirits seem to like to walk wires," Buchner explained as Eitnein tested what appeared to be a kind of fogging device lying between two books on astral projection. "Those psychics work best who work in haze," he informed me as his assistant checked the decibel level of a speaker concealed within a flower pot. "The right wave length insures the spirits most timely entry," Buchner pointed out. Then it was 9 o'clock; the guest of honor, a distinctly pedantic looking little man whose gestures seemed to me just a bit effeminate, entered and was seated. Sister Mary Margarine, I learned, had donned a jumpsuit and gone into the sewers to try and coax the demons back underground; she had promised to get here as early as possible. The lights were dimmed and, as if Buchner's parlor had become a darkroom, an eerie red light came on. Everyone seated around the table took on a negative sort of appearance. We joined hands. Buchner began chanting; he coughed once and went into a trance. At that very moment Eitnein - who had held my left hand, while the limp wristed individual whose angst prompted this séance held my right - let go of my hand long enough to reach under the table. No doubt his leg itched from his costume. Momentarily a sound came from the flower pot, a garbled "Ooooh." Next a sudden mist sprang from the bookcase, followed by what appeared to be a paper doll from behind the divider. This doll slowly approached; halfway to the table, however, it fell to the floor. Presently, Eitnein again letting go of my hand to scratch his knee, another "Ooooh" sounded, another puff of mist, and another doll started to descend from the divider toward the table. Then a truly strange thing happened.
The front door burst open, a rush of air swept past us and, as we watched in wonderment, wrest the doll from mid-air, or whatever it was perched on, took the doll as if in its hand, and began throttling it. Eitnein again had an itch. Again a mist from nowhere, an eerie "Ooooh," and yet another doll. This doll, strangest of all, was taken up and its head torn off. Fortunately Buchner came out of his trance long enough to apprise us that the spirits were performing feats of magic first. His hands were stretched toward us. Just as he was saying this, a page materialized from out of nowhere - it was just there, before us, lying on the table where but a moment before Buchner's voluminous silvery sleeve had been. On the bottom, clear as day, was the magic number: 84. Page 84. The missing link in this particular reader's exegesis of my novel. The guest of honor grabbed it up and studied it.
"But of course, of course!" he cried. "It is ditrielecticistimism after all! Just as I thought - as I knew! I am vindicated! Vindicated!" With this he got up and ran right out, down the stairs and into the night.
"Will you drop your suit before the Library of Congress?" I managed to ask, running after him.
"I'll drop all suits! All suits! Save suits of mail!" he called back to me laughing. I was quite relieved.
Then, out of the night, a figure all in black came running, nearly knocking the departing reader down. He screamed and ran till he disappeared from sight. I too ran, back toward the building which housed Buchner and, below him, the green grocer.
"Don't be afraid, it's me!" called the familiar voice of Sister Mary Margarine who, once she regained her breath, explained how she had temporarily lost track of the demons then, just by chance, on her way here, found evidence of their passing. It was confirmed that they had, indeed, been here.
"Look what they've done," said Buchner as he and Eitnein collected the mutilated dolls. Sister Mary just shook her head.
Bad news, they say, comes in threes. They might add that each piece of news is worse than the one preceding it, until, by the time the third arrives, there ensues utter catastrophe.
I no sooner arrived home from Buchner's, the threat of recall safely behind me, just as my poor printer's arrest had thwarted his threat of a lawsuit, than a far more serious threat than any yet known to mankind confronted me. The telephone was ringing practically off the hook, and no one was bothering to answer it.
"No one knows how to pick up a receiver any longer?" I asked as I made for the phone.
"I wouldn't do that," one of my workers cautioned.
"No, and that's why I'm famous and you're not!" I retorted. "Hello!" I answered into the receiver.
"Weeping Willy here," a crisp voice called out, "of the Universal Snoop. We at the Snoop want to get your reaction to the latest Trot Poll."
"My reaction to what?" I asked. Vaguely what he said rang a bell.
"The Trot Poll - the most accurate and up-to-the-minute poll of public sentiment," my caller refreshed my memory.
"Oh yes," I recalled at last, "a prestigious poll. Very well thought of. I can hardly wait for their latest findings."
"Ah! Then you haven't heard, or read, yet? Good. Very good."
"Haven't heard what?" I asked.
"Their latest survey on respectability finds you 80th on a list of 100 current celebrities. You, sir, are way way down. The American public has more respect for 62 clergymen, 11 scientists, 10 educators, 9 sports stars, 8 corporate executives, 7 bankers, 6 lawyers, 5 anchormen, 4 rock 'n rollers, 3 artists, 2 politicians and 1 transvestite than it does for you! That doesn't even include the two Trot brothers, who conducted the poll! What's your reaction?"
I considered what he said a moment. "Among writers," I said, "I think you'll find I'm number one."
"No, as a matter of fact," Weeping Willy replied, "the public respects one other writer a whole percentage point more."
"What other writer?"
"Silly Jilly."
"Then the public be damned!" I cried out and slammed down the receiver. Immediately my telephone began ringing again. "Don't anyone answer that!" I ordered.
"I say old bean," a familiar, friendly voice called to me, "come see this."
I went to see what it was. The television was on, and turned to a rap-up of the evening news: "Wrap It Up - Take It Home," the show was called. They were, I could tell, discussing the Trot Poll.
"Poll Schmoll!" I exclaimed. "The Trots ought to be jailed for violating the first law of any decent society: mind their own business! What right have they got going around deliberately looking for idiots who have so little taste as to respect a hack like Silly Jilly above an author like me? I could tell them a thing or two about him that'd make their hair stand on end!"
"I wouldn't if I were you, old man: it'll likely raise his margin a full point!"
Eventually the phone died down long enough for me to make a call myself - to my PR man, Big Bob Bulcht.
"I've already heard," he said, "and I'm already working on the problem. I'd like you to stop into my office first thing tomorrow - oh, and wear a disguise. The reporters are everywhere."
"Their telephone wires are too!" I observed.
"Remember: the Trot Poll only comes out once a year. It's a heyday for the news media. And there's almost nothing going on just now - about the most exciting thing happening is the Secretary of Treasury going on vacation to the South Seas! I won't say anything more now, I'd rather discuss our strategy in person."
Luckily - if it's possible to find fortune anywhere in all this - it somehow forgot to rain overnight, so I had a clear path from my front door to the awaiting taxi cab.
The Round Loop, at 1000 Clones Drive, was having street work done. The driver had to let me out half a block away. Disguised as a nobleman, complete with monocle and walking stick, I made my way to Warehouse Row.
"Thank God you took my advice," Big Bob said, indicating my disguise. "The place is surrounded by reporters!"
"They must be at breakfast," I noted, "all I see are road crews."
Big Bob shook his head. "This road - the original bed - was made for cattle to cross. There's not a more solid road in the state."
"Why are they fixing it?"
"They're not. Those are all reporters, disguised as hard hats," Big Bob advised me. "It's just lucky your disguise was so good."
He conducted me to the remotest spot in the building, informing his secretary, Panzer, that we were not to be disturbed. "Alright," he began once he felt sure there were no listening devices, "here's the plan. We've got to increase your popularity, you know that. Your public respectability is, please forgive my bluntness, at an all time low. We've got to bring that rating up. Now how is that to be done? I've thought about it, and I believe I've come up with the perfect scheme. Tell me now, what is it that, more than anything else, increases as person's value? And I'll give you a clue: what is it people are always complaining we don't have in America anymore?"
"Well," I considered the possibilities, "we don't have the gold standard anymore. Nor are there any five cent cigars. Are you saying I should become an inflation fighter?"
"Better still. I'll tell you what we don't have, Domby: we don't have heroes! That's what we don't have. Real life, honest to goodness heroes any longer."
"You want me to be a hero? But how?"
"I've got the perfect plan. By and large, to be a hero, it's helpful to do something heroic. And the more heroic acts you perform, the more popular you become. So this is what I propose: your mission, for at least the next week, until your next TV appearance, is to be present at every conceivable disaster. I mean everything: drownings, accidents, fires, cave-ins, riots - you name it. I want you there, conspicuously there, performing - or at least appearing to perform - some heroic deed. You can save someone's life, or stop a holdup, whatever you like. Just do it."
"Won't that be dangerous?" I asked.
"Not really. After all, by the time it comes across your monitor -"
"I don't have one."
"Get one! And by the time it's reported, the authorities will have already responded. So, by then, the worst of the danger'll be over. Just be conspicuous."
"How will they know it's me?" I asked. Big Bob reached into his briefcase and took something out.
"With this," he said, holding up what was clearly revealed now to be a tee shirt, across the front and back of which was my picture and, below it, my pen name. "Rodon Was Here," it said. "You'll wear this at all times - even when you're asleep. You'll be on call for catastrophe 24 hours a day until further notice. Agreed?"
What choice did I have if my respect quotient were ever to rise? "Agreed," I replied.
"Good," said Big Bob. "You start immediately. Soon as you get a good CB/Short Wave/Monitor."
"I think Metricula sells them."
I left, undetected by the mass of reporters feigning roadwork. I went at once to the mall near my home. Opportunity at once summoned me. I dashed into a telephone booth and, removing my jacket (for I had no time for taking my shirt off), I slipped the tee shirt over my head. Far up ahead, there was, as if my lucky stars were in full regale that day, a most awful altercation transpiring in, of all unlikely places, the Arcade. It looked from where I was to be a full scale riot. I ran as fast as I could, crying as I went "I'm on my way to help! Let no one accuse Rodon of unheroic behavior! I'm on my way to help save the day!"
The arcade was a mad house. Up close, it seemed much more difficult to effect a heroic posture than it had back at the phone booth. Nevertheless, the end always as said justifying the means, I entered the fray. It was a mess. Video games were upturned, tiny chips scattered all about the floor amidst bits of glass, various monsters and gadgets and alien spacecraft slithering all about. I had to leap aside to keep from being attack by Blinky and its sidekick, who had evidently mistaken my shoe for Ms Pac-Man. Several young men were shaking the pin-balls so hard the tilt gave up tilting and began registering game after game. Tokens were spewing out of coin changers as if a slot machine had had its jackpot hit. Pop-guns and machine guns and steering wheels were flying through the air, so rapidly I could barely duck in time. I nearly tripped at one point and an army of alligators stole across my chest; had I not grabbed hold of some jungle ropes and hoisted myself I was surely a dead man, or very nearly so. Most of all, though, had I to avoid that most dangerous, most treacherous of all arcade creatures - the human beast. Even little boys hardly in school seemed intent upon bashing my brains out: if only they knew what a mind it was they sought to extinguish! Luckily I managed to avoid the most fearsome of the marauders until the police arrived.
Order was soon restored; and, when it was, I immediately stepped forward. "I tried to stop the melee," I explained. "I was on my way to Metriculas. Thank God I happened by when I did or heaven knows what all damage might have occurred."
"Bullshit!" some little kid cried out. "He started it!" The brazen little brat was pointing to me. "Yeah," cried others, "that creep started it! That pervert! He tried to molest us! Pervert! Pervert!"
"I think you'd better come with us," the policeman said, taking hold of my arm. "You kids run along - but don't leave town, we may need statements. Come along, you!" he said to me.
It took a bit of explaining, plus all my attorney's skill to get me released and the charges dropped. I had to agree to go for psychological testing - a small price to pay for my freedom. On our way from police headquarters we passed a raging conflagration.
"Stop at once!" I cried. "Let me out!" I ran up to where some firefighters were hosing down a garage. I offered my assistance. Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, an old man and woman came running toward me.
"There he is!" they cried. "He's the one who set it!" They were pointing squarely at me. "Get him! We'd recognize that hideous face on his shirt anywhere! He's the one alright! He's the arsonist!"
I was again transported to police headquarters, this time on a charge of arson. When it was ascertained that I was already in custody on a charge of child molesting and malicious destruction of private property at the time the fire broke out, the police had little choice but to release me.
"Unless it was his astral body," the Captain suggested.
"Astral body my ass!" countered my attorney. When we had left headquarters, Elkins advised me to get rid of my tee shirt - my blankety-blank tee shirt, as he put it. By then I felt inclined to do as he suggested. Besides, I could always get another. There was still, after all, the public's need for heroes to be considered. For now, though: quieter pursuits.
Things looked rather bad for me. Here I was, doing nothing more malicious than innocently attempting to gain the respect of the public, and before I knew it, I was under indictment on two separate charges. Had it not been for the ever faithful United States Post Office I might well have given in to despair, so monstrous and unfair was my plight. Fortunately, neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor heat of day nor cold of night could stay delivery of my quarterly issue of Ficto-Phile. I did, of course, have to install a mailbox on a post at the end of my lane; the last big rain, which so perversely flooded Zardon's gully, made it eventually impossible for the postman to reach the mailbox on my front porch. At first he tried reaching across to me, but lost his balance. Luckily he did not plunge into the gully, but a number of letters did tumble from his mailbag; he managed to retrieve them however. That very day I received a call from the Post Office informing me that they were not obliged to wade moats to deliver mail.
"We'll go through the fires of hell," he vowed, "but I cannot in good conscience send my men through anything so atavistic as a moat. You'll have to put your mailbox elsewhere." And so I did.
And in it, this fine middle of the month, was my latest Ficto-Phile. I turned - fate directed my hand surely - to page one and, there, I saw something which cast aside all despairing thoughts. An article - the very first one listed in the index - as if written with just me in mind, virtually leaped out to greet me. In title, it bemoaned perhaps the single greatest loss in mankind's history: "Where Have All The Flowerings Gone?" it asked. I turned so quickly to the page indicated that I almost ripped the page; something told me this would prove one of the most important articles ever written or read.
"For what indeed," it began, "is the Flowering of all Literature if not that finest, rarest, sweetest fruition of functional formality? Yes, I speak of none other than The Literary Movement. Where - oh where - have they gone? And when we so desperately need them."
Read no further, I thought, for you've found what you were looking for. No Literary Movements? Well, we shall see about that, my friend. We shall see.
For, right then and there, I resolved to found one. My own Literary Movement. It amazed me I had not thought of it sooner, so perfect a cap to my career was it. Nevertheless, now that it had been thought of, I would waste no time. I sat down at once to prepare an ad for the pages of the Want Ads.
"All who wish to join the latest - indeed, the only contemporary - Literary Movement, please contact Rodon at 101 Industrial Pike."
As I had not yet decided what the dues would be, I left that open. The response would dictate the membership fee. And as to special events such as poetry readings, trips to museums and fine restaurants, and general socials, I would work up a suitable schedule at my leisure. Not wanting to waste time, I hurried downtown to mail the letter.
"Pssst," a voice behind me whispered, "if you need a mail drop, I can get you one real cheap." I recognized the voice as that of the peddler who had sold me the ill-fated umbrella just as I was beginning my career, the very same one who tried not long ago in the lobby of the Timpony Building to sell me a wristwatch.
"I have a mailbox," I said, "I get home delivery."
"Just as well," the peddler acquiesced, "since it isn't me renting them - I'm just drumming up business for a recluse who's converted his apartment into mail drops. He stripped it bare. then built a thousand Post Office type boxes, row after row. He sleeps in the bathroom now, and spends his days tending other people's parcels. He, like me, was once a writer. Now that he too has seen the light, and knows there is nothing further to write about, he took all the covers of his manuscripts and pasted them together to form mail boxes."
"Nothing more to write about?" I said. "You sell out your fellow man cheap, I fear. Why, in fact, far from giving up, I have just this very day started a brand new Literary Movement - the only one of its kind in America today. I expect a million dues paying members in no time at all. Do you care to join? Or your friend, the mailman: would he be interested, do you think?"
"Me?" the peddler said. "Mister, I'd as soon be part of somebody's bowel movement as his literary movement! I don't know a single peddler who'd tell you otherwise - and, trust me, there are thousands of us, and our numbers are growing daily. But you won't find a one of us dues paying, or card carrying, or shit sniffing members of anybody's movement. Only sycophants would follow in someone else's slime steps."
"They have as much right to be cultured as anybody else," I retorted.
The peddler started to go, but turned back. He withdrew something from his grab bag; it appeared to be a spray can, but bore no recognizable label.
"By the way," he said, "could in interest you in a container of essence of originality. This is the sample size - but even it carries a price."
"What would I use it for?" I inquired.
"If sycophants get too close, you just zap them once - twice at the most. They go into a tail spin. But don't worry: it's effects are only temporary."
"I would hope so. But, no thanks, not today," I said. Momentarily, the peddler was quickly, and quietly, gone.
Two days later I received in the mail a reply to my letter. "We are sorry," it read, "but we are not accepting unsolicited ads any longer. May we recommend Toady Schmoady? They will advertise anything. Yours, the Editors of Ficto-Phile."
"Indeed they will print anything!" I declared. Of course, for ethical reasons, I was obliged to ignore the suggestion. So there I was, a great literary figure, all dressed up in my genius, as it were, with no place to go. This is not going to be easy, I thought.
I decided to call a general meeting of my workers, to see if they had any suggestions how I might best get my movement started.
"Why a literary movement?" somebody asked. "Why not go straight for the jugular? Why not a religious cult?"
"Religious cult?" I asked back. "And jugular? What have they to do with one another?"
"Don't you mean juggler?" someone asked.
"Or jungler?"
"But why a religious cult?" I again asked.
"Same thing," it was answered. "Only today, everything is belief, not mere fashion. Literary movements are passé - if you can write, write your Theologicus Tracticus. Everyone who joins turns all their possessions over to you."
"Where would I store them all?" I asked.
"But that's where being a writer comes in: you can create a story big enough to hold all of them!"
Naturally, my workers broke out in laughter. And, to tell you the truth, so did I. It was just what I needed to put Ficto-Phile's rejection of my ad in perspective: a good laugh.
I have tasted the utter bitter bite of Rejection. My simple desire to found a Literary Movement and thus benefit all humanity thwarted at the hands of faceless bureaucracy. My little ad turned away by a heartless advertising policy. I thought to myself now I have known how all rejected authors feel. Perhaps I shall write a novella depicting the loneliness, the heartache, the sense of being trapped in a malevolent universe. I am certainly well versed in those things now. What could be worse than this? I wondered - and was not long in finding out.
A knock on my study door brought a familiar voice. "I say, old bean, the postman always rings twice," my trusted foreman, Epsom Salts, informed me. "He's down there now with a bill for damages."
"Damages?" I asked.
"You'll have to ask him, old man." And so I did.
"The mail I dropped in your moat the other day," the postman explained, "it got waterlogged. And, unnoticed by me, a whole bulk rate of sample soaps slipped out and were lost in the water. Perhaps you've noticed soapsuds - these were the new Blessed Wipe soap bars, guaranteed to lather up as no other soap before or since."
I inquired of my workers but found no evidence of soapsuds. Together, we all went outside to look and, sure enough, right there, on the floor of the gully, were about 50 little bars of soap. I instructed one of my workers to retrieve them.
"Ooh, ouch, ooh, ouch!" he cried out as he collected the soap. It seems he had gotten lye burns on his fingers and palms.
"I say old man," Epsom Salts interjected, "had you better call Elkie and see about a lawsuit against the US Post Office for polluting your pond, not to mention workmen's compensation for poor Luigi there?"
"I think so," I agreed.
"Do what you must," said the postman. "For now, though, I'm charged with collecting damages from you. Twenty-seven fifty - in cash, check or money order. No stamps please."
This was when the disaster struck, that paled all my other catastrophes. My purse, dear reader, was bare. Bare to the very bones. In a word, I was flat broke. I went to my cupboard (where I keep my check book), only to find it, too, bare. I had not a penny in my checking account. And I keep no money orders around the house. In short, I was hurting in the worst possible way.
"I will simply have to pay you later," I promised the mailman. He agreed, but took my mailbox as collateral.
"You'll get this back when we get our money," he in turn promised. He did leave the post, however. "You can pay at our main office downtown," he advised.
I at once phoned my bank. "Roland Domby for Horace Hokum-Poicus," I said.
"I'm sorry sir," came the reply, "he's not in."
"It's very urgent that I speak to him - when will he return?" I asked.
"I'm sorry sir - oh, hold on please." I distinctly heard talking in the background, one voice, I could have sworn, that of Hokum-Poicus. "Sir? Thank you for holding. Mr Hokum--Poicus is away on vacation -"
"Business trip!" a voice on the other end of the line whispered.
"Business trip I mean. Could anyone else help you sir?"
"I need money. I've got to have money. Twenty-seven fifty. By three o'clock. Or else you'll never see a letter from me again."
"Alright, sir. We'll do as you say. How do you want the money?"
"In small bills," I said.
"I'm sorry sir, they're all one size - medium."
"That'll do. Please have the money waiting for me. And no tricks." I said this last because of the duplicity the voices made apparent.
"Yes sir."
Barely five minutes later the telephone rang. I could hardly believe my ears.
"Domby? It's me, Horace. I'm calling from a private phone in the bank vault. Listen to me. Don't say a word, just listen. I couldn't talk when you called. I think you know why. I'm a businessman and a highly respected member of this community. I simply can't afford any scandal. But, damn it Domby, I like you, and I would like to see you again. Now I'm not one to accuse - but this mess you've gotten yourself into. Well, enough said. I won't judge you - but neither can I afford to be seen with you. So what I'd like you to do is this: when you come in the bank, come disguised. Walk on through the lobby, on past the tellers, past the cashier, past the stock broker - we have a stock broker now; and on into the vault where we keep the safe deposit boxes. The vault'll be unlocked. Walk in. Go to the far end. Whistle eight times. And stay where you are. Do you have that?"
"Why a disguise?" I asked.
"So you won't be recognized."
"And what sort of disguise?"
"Anything at all - so long as it doesn't involve a mask, if you get my meaning," Hokum-Poicus said.
As the whole world knows, beggars cannot be choosers, so I complied with his strange request. What else could I do, what with the Post Office breathing down my neck?
"I say old bean," Epsom Salts advised when I explained my predicament, "go as Sneaky Pete, the Pirate!"
"No," said someone else, "go as Peter Piper!"
"Peter Pan," advised another.
"Or Peter Wheat!"
"Or Little Bo Pete. And we'll be your sheep!"
"I will go as Mrs. Siddons," I said. I had no idea why that came to me. In fact, I swear to God, though it was distinctly my voice, I don't recall saying it at all. The pressure I'd been under was clearly beginning to tell.
So it was the infamous Mrs. Siddons I went as. Heads turned as I walked past, in my long gray gown, little black gloves, dark wig in a bun, my bonnet and shawl, and carrying a nice straw handbag. All eyes were upon me, but I ignored them. I had an appointment in the bank vault to attend. I had $27.50 to come up with by the close of business. Into the vault I went; just as I was told, it was unlocked. Then to the far end, where, stopping, I proceeded to whistle eight times. Another door swung open.
"In here!" a familiar voice called. I went into the money vault. Ah, how well I remembered it! I shared many pleasant moments in there. So many memories. The first time I ever entered came back to me. My first modest loan. Ah, such memories; sweet, sweet memories.
"We'll have to make it quick," said my banker, Horace Hokum-Poicus. "Here - here's the money: four 500's, four 100's, four 50's, five 20's and five 10's: $2750.00. You can count it if you like."
"I trust you," I said.
"Very well. Domby, you're looking good," he said. "I'm sorry that...well, I'm sorry your proclivities are what they are. I choose to think it's your Muse and certainly not the entrepreneur in you that's what caused your downfall. But...what can I say?"
"Easy come, easy go," I reflected philosophically.
"Oh my God, my God, that's what I always say!" Hokum-Poicus exclaimed. Even in the dim light he could detect the skepticism in my features. He shook his head. "I can hardly blame you for not believing me, after all this...secrecy...but I swear it's true: I always say that. In fact - let me just make one call." He dialed out. "Madeline: come to the door to Vaunt Vault. Right away. Muss your hair or something so you're not recognized. Knock three times but don't enter."
Presently the three knocks. "Madeline," Hokum-Poicus called through the slit in the now slightly opened door, "what is it I always say?" Eventually the right question was elicited. Madeline was dismissed. I too was asked to leave, with a "Don't call us, we'll call you."
Outside the bank, I bought a newspaper, so that, just in case I should encounter anyone I knew while waiting for the taxi, I could hide my identity behind today's headlines. Luckily no one I knew came by. I did, however, read through the paper on the way to the Post Office. A big headline on page two at once caught my eye.
"Famed author implicated in child pornography ring!"
"Ha!" I thought. "My nemesis has been at it again!" I had no doubt who the "famed author" was (though, for the sake of my illustrious and most kind-hearted reader I will not name It, except to note my reaction). "There is nothing too slimy for such a hack!" I thought.
The reader - dear, wondrous Reader of All Readers - can hardly imagine my surprise, my shock, my consternation, my bewilderment, my very horror upon discovering the object of the report to be, not the tenth-rate hack I had assumed, but...I can barely write it...but...Me!
Yes, dear reader, Me! Your beloved author. My good name dragged through the mud, my honor questioned, my dignity compromised - indeed, my very virtue held in public contempt. They made a mockery of me. I was shocked, to say the least. I found myself in a daze perusing the mean-spirited article, wondering how such lies could appear in so fine a place as a newspaper - the very newspaper which, barely a week ago, had written a glowing review of my novel. Now here I was being maligned. Child Pornography? me? My God, I have never in my life given, let alone sold, a dirty magazine or so much as a single picture to a child! To anyone for that matter. Why, I had never even looked at such things myself.
"Your stop cutie," said the driver. I was so in a daze that I had failed to notice the taxi stopping.
Cutie? I thought. Not Mack, or Bud? That was quite a switch.
I went in and paid the fine, the postman giving me both a receipt and my mailbox; I put the former, along with my newspaper, inside the latter and left. I began walking, no idea where I was or where I was heading; I just walked. The afternoon wore on, and the only thing I remember was someone saying "Look, there's Mrs. Siddons! Let's get her autograph," followed by a cautious "For Lord sake, she's a ghost. She can't write."
I traversed many a sidewalk that afternoon. I found my shadow in every conceivable place - preceding me, trailing behind, or off to one side or the other; just everywhere. I passed skyscrapers, I passed tenements, I passed theaters and bakeries and diners; I saw fat people, I saw thin, men, women and children, of every description (even under so great a strain, I noted the descriptions of everyone I saw; I could set each one down on paper if I chose). The afternoon wore on; finally it began to get dark. I was growing tired, along with my depression, so I decided to rest. The feet, dear reader, can grow as weary as the mind when their walk is aimless and they are watched all the way by downcast eyes. I ducked into a theater. I assumed by the marquee it was a theater, by the bill of fair a vaudeville theater, for it advertised a magic show: "The Great Epton," the marquee announced, "Magician, Ventriloquist, Raconteur, Mentalist, Impressionist and Actor Par Excellence." He might not be half bad, I thought as I bought my ticket. Inside - and I could describe the place to the n'th degree were it not a source of such bitter irony - I sat down in the back row, not wishing to be noticed. A comedy team was just ending its performance: Borner and Bowels, as the MC pointed out upon their exit.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he then announced, "it is my supreme pleasure to present to you at this time, the main attraction of the evening. Direct from the capitals of Europe, ladies and gentlemen, it is my profound honor to present to you, for your enjoyment, your edification, the one, the only, the Great Epton!"
A sprightly fanfare preceded him. And, dear reader, I could hardly believe my own eyes. You'll think I'm making this up, but there, on stage, in a flowing purple robe and bright blue turban, was none other than my very own - my one and only! - right hand man, my shop foreman, my trusted assistant: Epsom Salts. Now billed as The Great Epton.
He bowed to the audience and, in a voice I had never heard before, thanked us for our generosity. "I promise," he said, "you will not be sorry you entered this hall this evening. Observe," he then said, "nothing in either hand." He closed his palm, and when he opened it, out flew a tiny sparrow. This was followed by a whole series of magic tricks; the audience loved them all.
"Now," he said, "I want to introduce a little friend of mine." Here he took a ventriloquist's dummy from a wooden box sitting on a table. He held the dummy up; it had on a bright orange clown suit. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Flotsam. Flotsam, say hello to the nice people in the audience." The dummy's head turned, first toward the audience, then back again to Epson - that is, the Great Epton - then again to the audience.
"Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" it cried out in a voice too familiar for words - laughably familiar. Indeed, the whole audience broke into laughter and applause, myself too. This was poetic justice in seeing It the Hack from Beyond the Region of Taste and Talent reduced to a pint-sized puppet in a clown suit!
"Tell us Flotsam," the Great (Truly Great!) Epton inquired, "what do you do."
"I palmastuff," the Dummy replied.
"Palmastuff?"
"Yeah: I palm my stuff off on the public!" Again, laughter aplenty - and most appropriate.
"And what do you do with any you have left over?"
"Planetrival."
"Planetrival?"
"Yeah: I plant it on my rival - then sue his ass!" This of course was almost too close to home to be funny.
"Wait a minute, Flotsam: are you telling me you have a rival?"
"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"
Suddenly there came a tapping. "Hark," said Epton, "I hear something. It seems to be coming from this box. Let's see what it is." He proceeded, the orange Dummy still in his left hand, to the table to a second wooden box, identical to the first in every particular. He opened it. Well, look here!" he exclaimed. Reaching in, he withdrew a second Dummy, this one beautifully attired in purple. "Who have we here?" he asked.
The purple Dummy looked all around. "Jetsam," it replied. And, dear reader, I could almost have sworn the name had come from my very mouth, so nearly did its rich smooth tone mimic my own voice. The audience applauded.
"And, tell me Jetsam, what do you do?"
"I don't have to do anything, I'm a genius!" Incredibly, this tasteless audience laughed at that.
"Do you have any advice for our dear, illustrious, wonderful, angelic, compassionate and half a dozen other adjectival friends out there?" Epton asked.
"Verily," this purple prince declared, "I say unto each of you: you must become again as little children."
"But why?"
"Otherwise I wouldn't give a plug nickel to see you in your birthday suit!" Tremendous laughter. (My poor dear readers, that you should have to endure such insult to your favorite author - but I am first and foremost a realist and must remain forever true to the tenets of that lofty and noble school.)
Then Flotsam spoke out, like the beast It was. "You ought to be in jail!"
"Oh yeah?" cried an indignant Jetsam. "Well, you ought to be in debtor's prison!"
"Oh yeah? why?"
"For the poverty of your prose!"
"Good for you Jetsam!" I cried out, but was not heard above the roar of laughter.
"Oh yeah?" cried Flotsam.
"Oh yeah!" retorted Jetsam.
Presently a great battle broke out there on stage as the Dummy in Epton's left hand jostled back and forth with the one in his right hand. (I might add, as depressing as this spectacle was, thank God one good thing could be said for it: Jetsam had assumed the right handed position, there could be no hint of un-American sentiment in his pose. Eventually, so mightily did the two battle that their respective outfits were knocked off their bodies, revealing both to be (as I suppose all dummies are) nothing but a little tufted straw stretched across skeletons of cardboard. A great deal of laughter and applause greeted this revelation; but not on my part, for I was thoroughly depressed with the whole shabby spectacle, as much by the audience's appreciation of so shallow and phony a performance as by the humiliating reduction of my deep and abiding wish to bestow something of great value on my fellow man to a cheap sideshow. I got up and left.
I could not possibly have been more depressed. Indeed, had there been a straight-jacket lying in the outer lobby, I almost think I would have picket it up and put it on, right over my Mrs. Siddons disguise, and betaken myself to Wonderful Haven, our local crazy house. Luckily I was spared such a premature indignity. There was no straight jacket, but what I did encounter more than offset the terrible state I had sunk to; indeed, I became almost manic. For there, right in the lobby, was an old passing acquaintance; and, though his name escaped me, his face did not.
"Excuse me ma'am," he said, "but you have a literary look about you. And that's good - mighty good. Because I just happen to have on my person this very evening - even as you see me, standing here before you - quite possibly the greatest invention since time began. What is it you want most - what is it you want most? In a literary sense. I'll tell you what it is: you want power. Control. You want to be the boss. You don't want to feel as if your work is getting away from you - slipping out of your hands. Why does that happen though? Did you ever ask yourself that? Well, I'll tell you why - in one word I'll tell you: Character. It's through your characters that you must lose control. But what do you do about it? If you're a writer - as I think you just might be - you could search your entire career for the means to control your characterizations. Now, through the wonders of high technology, I'm here to tell you your problems are solved. I'm going to show you the answer to your prayers. You see this little gadget? A moment ago it was in my pocket - you saw me take it out just now, didn't you? As you see, it fits on my thumbnail. How can something this small solve your problem, you ask. Well, I'll tell you. It contains more micro-dots to the millimeter than any similar chip ever created. This little bugger damn near approaches infinity, if you'll pardon my language. It's got googleplexes on top of its googleplexes. It's circuits were designed with the aid of an electron microscope - that's how precise it is. Furthermore, it integrates perfectly with any standard computer. Now you might be asking yourself: So what? It's a marvel - big deal! what has that to do with me? I'm a writer, not a computer analyst! I'll tell you what it as to do with you, friend. This little baby just happens to contain, in its miles upon miles of circuitry, the complete characterizations of mankind. You heard me right. Every character of every story ever written is stored inside here; plus there are enough free circuits to store every character every writer can come up with for the next half century. A total compendium, at your fingertips. Every possible combination of characteristics is right here; so, if you can't find a character ready made from the past, you can create your own from an infinity of mix and match characteristics - sort of on the Rubick's Cube principle. What do you say? Interested?"
Interested? I thought. My God, I'm positively awed! However, as my reaction might well have influenced the asking price, I feigned a somewhat indifferent posture. "It might be useful," I said in a noncommittal tone of voice. "But I'll have to think about it. Is there some way I can get in touch with you?"
At this request, the traveling salesman took out his card and handed it to me. "Chipper Chipstone," the name read; below the name, a telephone number and an address. I thanked him and promised to get back with him. "By the way," I asked, "how much is it?"
"Oh, let's just haggle over that a bit when you make up your mind."
"Fair enough," I agreed. He replaced the chip in his pocket and moved on. I too moved on, fairly bounding into the air with each step.
"Eeeeeh doggies!" I cried over and over at intervals. Just think of it: all the characterizations a writer could ever wish for, and all at my very fingertips! I had only to purchase the fabulous chip Chipper was hawking in the lobby of the Bijou. And that, I would do first thing tomorrow.
"Hmm," I thought, "I may need to get more money." Just on the chance that my dear friend Horace Hokum-Poicus might be burning the midnight oil, I telephoned him. No answer. Then, and I don't know what prompted me to dial it, but I decided to try the special number, the one on the telephone in the Vaunt Vault; the number, fortunately, had stuck in my mind. It rang three times then it was answered - by Hokum-Poicus himself. I explained my predicament.
"I may need a cashier's check, in an unspecified amount," I said. "It's either that or sell off my shares of stock."
"Oh dear merciful heaven," my banker wailed, "don't do that - whatever you do don't sell your Rodon! It's about to split! I'll give you the check - anything, anything - only please: for God sake, don't sell that stock! It'd be like a piece of my childhood going down the drain. Roland Domby and Rodon are a match made in heaven - let no man put them asunder. I'll have your check waiting for you first thing tomorrow. Come in, go to the first teller on the left - it'll be Madeline. Bring a brown paper bag. Open it. She'll slip the check in. Then get out as quick as you can, before anyone recognizes you. Have you got that?"
"Is the sky blue?" I quipped.
"Oh Roland, I've been shut up here in this God forsaken vault all day today - how would I know?"
"Good point," I said. A realist's dream, is what it was. A fine literal statement of fact. And as an author of Realism, it was not lost on me. Not for a moment. I copied it verbatim.
Bright and early the next day I arose. My depression had vanished during the night, which goes to show you how fleeting a thing madness is: here today, gone tomorrow, perchance never to return. Oh, I had not forgotten the horrible charges lodged against me in the pages of the News Bureau, our city's daily; neither had the great wrong done me by my foreman escaped me - my former foreman, as I intended to reveal at the proper moment. No, only the deep depression these unheard of traumas induced in me had gone. But I am nothing if not an unbridled optimist; so when Chipper presented me with an opportunity to advance not only my own career but, you might say, the career of a planet, I at once resumed my cheerful, hopeful natural state of mind. Besides, I had a plane to catch at noon. My big appearance, on nationwide television, on the cream of late night talk shows, was scheduled for this very evening. Luckily I had already booked, and paid for, both my flight and my lodging while there. Now that I thought better of it, however, I would not stay overnight, but catch the very next flight home the moment the show was over; that way I could get a rebate on my hotel bill. And as the frugal reader knows, money was extremely tight just then.
In fact, it occurred to me as I was shaving that I had yet to receive a royalty check for the sales of my novel. I made a mental note to telephone Timpony and my agent both when I returned home - a note, dear reader, which was almost jarred loose from my mind by a sudden incredible commotion just outside.
"My lord!" I cried. "Has some terrorist exploded a bomb on my front lawn?" Rushing to the window, I discovered the source of this tremendous noise. Below my window stood the illustrious engineer, Zimrod Zardon. He was directing a crew of what I took to be construction workers. The moment I got ready I ran downstairs and outside.
"Ah Domby!" Zardon cried, coming at once to my side. "So good to see you."
"You too," I said. "But what is this?" I asked.
"Groundwork," he replied.
"Groundwork?"
"Groundwork," he repeated. "We have just broken ground for Dombicon."
The name, surprisingly, besides having a distinctly catchy ring to it, was vaguely familiar. I toyed a moment with it. "Dombicon. Dombicon. Now where have I heard that before?"
"In our agreement," Zardon explained. "Remember? When we discovered the silicon, we of course set about immediately to develop and exploit to the fullest this marvelous resource. When we decided on the size and extent of our smelting operation, we chose the acronym Dombicon, for Domby's Insatiable Silicon. Remember?"
Now it came back to me. "You are watching the rise of the East's finest silicon smeltery," Zardon said.
"Ah, what a shame, but I've got to run," I in turn said. "I'll be gone most of the day. But I'll catch the work tomorrow."
"Unfortunately you'll be unable to. Tomorrow - and all your tomorrows after that - it'll already be built, your smeltery. It's prefab. These men will have it up by quitting time today. It's the new Smeltararity Smeltery. An 18 wheeler will deliver it around 10 A.M. It's constructed entirely of processed polymetalchlorides and fiberboard. I designed it myself from an old blueprint of a birdhouse I found lying around in my basement. I'm sorry you'll miss being part of history by not being here when it's erected."
"Ah, but I will be part of history, my friend," I assured the great engineer. "Tune in The Great Talkers tonight. You just may recognize one of Joey Mertle's guests."
With that, my taxi had arrived and I was off to the bank, brown paper bag in my breast coat pocket. I went in, as instructed the night before, went to the first cashier on the left, also as instructed. But I saw no Madeline. Instead there was a strange looking bearded gentleman, all hunched over. I approached.
"Excuse me," I said, "where might I find Madeline, the head teller?"
The face looked up at me, and an eye which I recognized at once as the dull flat gray eye of Madeline winked. "The boss said to wear a disguise," she explained in a low but gruff voice. She then brought forth a cashier's check; I my brown bag. And the transaction was effected. I left, going at once to a telephone to call Chipper at the number he had given me.
"I've got the money," I informed him. But to my horror he informed me that I had competition."
"Specifically," he related, "the bottom line is, that another writer has decided to bid on the chip. Which in turn makes the bottom line that much longer - to make room for the added zeroes, if you get my drift."
"When can I place my bid?" I asked.
"Day after tomorrow," Chipper replied. "At the address on the card I gave you."
"I'll be there. What time?"
"Let's make it noonish."
"Fair enough," I said.
"And it will be fair too," agreed Chipper: "Hosea Hot Stuff 'n Cold Too, channel 1's weatherman, guarantees it. Says he'll open a vein right there on TV if his forecast doesn't hold true. Can't get more accurate weather than that!"
"You sure can't," I agreed.
Next, after a quick lunch at Bartleby's, it was to the airport, and on to the jumbo jet, first class. It amused me, the entire flight across the country, that not one single soul asked for my autograph. Just wait till the way back, I thought. You'll all be begging me for an autograph. I can wait, because good things are worth waiting for. Yeah, I can wait alright. Long as it takes.
I barely took a breath and there I was in L A. It is amazing how man has overcome the many resistances nature sets in his path: air, water, distance - you name it, man will find a way around it. Such is his genius.
I disembarked. Waiting to greet me was, as pre-arranged, my PR Man, Big Bob Bulcht. He emerged from a big white limousine which, right away, I recognized as having come for me; on its side were big decals giving forth my likeness. I hurried to it.
"It's all arranged," he apprised me.
"Just as we planned?" I inquired.
"Exactly. Panzer and me, we paid a little visit to "P&T of L A, USA, and set it all up. When you appear on little Joey Mertle's show, when he introduces you, and that there curtain opens up, she's gonna be all in place - I mean one beast of a prop! The whole world's gonna know the name of Rodon after that there appearance or my name ain't Big Bob Bulcht!"
"Sounds great," I said. "By the way, where is Panzer? Is he supervising setting it up?"
Big Bob shook his head. "Swear to God, I don't know where that boy's ass is. Last I saw him, he was heading toward the Strip. Haven't seen or heard from him since. May have to stay on a couple extra days till that little ass of his gets back here. That boy's got no more sense of time than he does restraint. I don't know what I'm going to do with him. You nervous?" Big Bob asked me.
"No, as a matter of fact I'm not."
"Good. Just watch those butterflies. If you think you're in danger, take a purgative now. And go easy on the water: it comes from the Colorado River, and you don't know who all's been swimming in it first!"
When we arrived at the studio, we were greeted by the man from P&T, who informed us that everything was ready for my appearance. "Just enough tension to hold, not so much as to be a barrier," he explained. "I take it you know what's expected of you?"
"He's been briefed," Big Bob answered for me.
"Good. Well, like I tell all my clients: take two bills in the morning and call me. One bill for consultation, one for equipment. Check or money order. And, like the man said: 'Break a Leg!'"
"That little chicken shit Panzer better get his ass back," said Big Bob, "he's got my money orders in his shoulder bag."
I looked up at the great edifice before me, the majestic CAN TV Studios of Greater Los Angeles. A jewel of architecture, a full block long, and almost as deep. A palace where was housed some of the greatest of modern cultural treasures; a veritable monument to the genius of the American people. Slowly, as one might enter a cathedral, I walked through these glittering portals, into a cream colored lobby through which flitted a panoply of fabulous characters. In just the few moments it took to traverse this truly grand concourse, I spied no less entities than Smiley Parktens, host of What Will You Win Tonight?; Raggety Ranch, star of the new daytime serial Lust at Lunch; Scanlon O'Marata, anchor of the evening news; Pumpernickel Man, the Saturday cartoon host; plus too many other worthies to name. My heart raced with excitement. A few steps farther brought us to the set of The Great Talkers, where the host, little Joey Mertle, was trying out some new material. He and I were introduced.
"That's some set you've designed," Mertle congratulated me. I thanked him, then expressed my delight at meeting the champion of late night viewing.
"We sure won't need a copy of your book to show our viewers, will we?" he noted. "That means the $16.95 we saved, we'll add to your fee, giving you $336.95. Many of our guests give their fee to their favorite charities. Will you follow suit?"
"Yes," I said. "Have them sent it to the Unknown Writers' Burial Fund, I forget the exact address. Ever since I read about it, I've felt partial toward it."
Soon, dear reader, that magic, wondrous, special, spectacular, inevitable time rolled around. The studio swelled to standing room only with patrons eager to see what marvels their host had in store for them (and I suspect not a few were there because they had heard that America's newest great author would appear). Then came Joey Mertle's opening monologue, a beautiful piece of comedic genius. Ah! he had warmed the audience to perfection. I could tell they were growing ever more eager for the big moment. One or two mediocre guests came and went. Then, suddenly, there I was back stage getting myself in place. And before I knew it, it was time. Magic Time.
"Ladies and gentlemen," came Joey Mertle's big booming voice, "without further ado, may I present to you, the one, the only...RRRRRRRooonnnnddoooooooooo!"
An awesome pause. The curtains had opened as he began his introduction, And there, huge and glorious, up on stage, there for all the studio, all the nation, all the world, to see, was before their very eyes - their bedazzled eyes! - from ceiling to floor, from stage right to stage left...there, on little Joey Mertle's stage it was -
The jacket of my book. The front cover of my novel. Its grand and glorious colors looking out at humanity like some giant behemoth of breathing cultural fulfillment, like something out of a dream, a vision - a profound and awe-inspiring vision.
A hush and a silence befell the studio, the nation, the world - the universe. As if eternity was come amongst us.
Then suddenly a gasp from below...
...The audience gasped. Then burst into applause. For I, author, just as I had planned and worked it out on paper over and over till perfection fitted my purpose like a clear vinyl glove - I, author of that biggest of all novels as represented here on this stage for all the world to see - I, humble conductor of truths - I, artist and friend of all living things - I, champion of humanity...
I burst through that giant book cover like a sunbeam through a cloud! I felt it rip, heard it descend, sensed it lying all about me. For I, author, had burst clean through.
Just as I and my advisers had planned, I leaped through my own book jacket. To an immense burst of applause.
And, dear reader, forget what you have heard Miss Prunella, my would-be dance instructor, say. For I, author that I am, and knowing only too well that I am, have been, ever since that humiliating experience, practicing my taps. Tappity-tap-tap...boomity-boom-boom-boom...rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat...
Yes, dear reader, I had mastered the art of dancing. And, having leaped like a virile panther through the bars of its cage, I set my feet a-tapping.
"Oh, I's dus a wittle itty bitty witer!" I sang as I tapped, to the exquisite, intricate and delicate boom-la-di-boom-boom-boom-la-di-boom-la-di-boom! beat. Dear God did I dance!
All at once - I was barely through the second go-round - a virtual din of voices cried from below "My God! what a writer!" This was followed by a chorus of "Encore! Encore!" What could I do?
"Oh, I's dus a wittle itty-bitty witer, wis a wittle itty-bitty tawent too!" Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom...
They loved it.
When the final applause died down, when my final encore had ended, I walked - no: ran; I veritably ran - to the guest of honor's seat at the right side of Joey Mertle; and I sat down.
"So tell us," Joey asked, "where the hell did you learn to write like that?" The audience again burst into applause.
"Well," I answered when the noise ceased, "I can't really claim credit. I'm just the medium these higher truths pass through on their way to immortality. I just have...something...whatever it is...which enables me to tune into the infinite, and give it a form, and so enrich - I trust, I hope - the lives of my fellow man. That is what it's all about, you know. But now let me ask you something: are you aware you mis-introduced me?"
"I did?" Joey was clearly surprised.
I had made a mental note at the start of my performance to point out at the appropriate time his mistake.
"Yes, you did. You called me 'Rondo,' of all things, whereas my name is, as all these good people know, 'Rodon.'"
"Well, I'll be." Joey was amazed. "So you're not the one and only Rondo, but the one and only Rodon."
"The very one," I assured him.
"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Joey announced, "in that case, let's hear it for the one, the only...Rodon!"
Instead of the applause I expected, there arose from below a loud, boisterous round of catcalls and boo's. I was stunned; I didn't know what to make of it. Then Joey figured it out.
"Let me try something," he said. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the one...the only...Rondo!"
Applause and cheering such as you have never heard ensued. "Just to be sure," said Joey Mertle, "let's try it once more. Ladies and gentlemen: Rodon!"
"Boo! Boo! Boo!" they cried.
"Ladies and gentlemen: Rondo!"
"Yaah! Yaah! Yaah!" they cried.
"Well," concluded Joey Mertle, "it looks as if we've got you another name - that is, if you'll accept these good people's suggestion."
I looked out into the audience. I thought to myself "What a bunch of jackasses, to prefer Rondo over Rodon." But, who am I to go against public opinion?
"You bet your bottom dollar I accept it! From now on, I am the one...the only...Rondo - and only Rondo!" I made my declaration. The response was overwhelming. In truth, good reader, I received a standing ovation - and there had not been a standing ovation given anyone on Joey Mertle's The Great Talkers since he presented Peegee-Poo, the black, brown and silver Pekinese that saved the town of La Costa Dolars del Fiesta from being poisoned by a leaking gas main which that most worthy animal managed to seal with his excrement. I thanked the audience, vowing to remember this moment always as the proudest achievement of my life. I left that place with fond memories. Nevertheless, I was glad when the show ended and I could return home.
Big Bob was waiting at the stage door to take me to the airport. "I won't be going with you," he said. "It seems Panzer met up with a big Hollywood producer on the Strip," he explained. "He pegged Panzer right away for star material. They went to his place and talked all day about his career - talked and talked till they were too exhausted to talk any longer; then fell asleep. Panzer wants me to help him get started, and I've just about got a PR plan designed already. I'll stay on a week or so, just to see how it goes."
I wished him luck then boarded the 747 for the East. I had no more than fastened my seat belt till I heard my fellow passengers whispering behind my back. "That's him," they said. "The big writer." "Wonder if he gives autographs?" And many, many more such sentiments, all of which I ignored, my mind, as always, on tomorrow. For tomorrow was the big day, the day the great chip would be mine, with its store of characters, plots, denouements, climaxes, anti-climaxes, and - who knows? - maybe even a line or two of dialogue. In fact, I slept during most of the flight, so preoccupied was I with the wonderful things awaiting me. I dreamed of a great computer, of silver, platinum and gold with crystal dials and buttons and knobs. I saw, approaching, a myriad of great books. The computer seemed to be beckoning them to a diode at the rear, into which they all filed, one by one. Then, as I watched, my own book appeared; it too was beckoned. But, just as it drew near, a stray key punch card was spat out and came hurtling toward it. Then I awoke, the sound of the 747 touching down. I was home - and disappointed, because Big Bob was supposed to have wired ahead, cueing his operatives to make my arrival known, which of course would have generated a huge crowd at the terminal. As it was, his preoccupation with his secretary's newfound career quite obviously interfered with his primary duties.
"Ah me," I mused, "if only Shemp Dingle were back in business. Where is he when you need him?" I hopped in a taxi and went home, where, owing no doubt to the great excitement tomorrow's events inspired in me, plus the jet lag, I slept a fitful sleep. I kept imagining I heard rain, but that, as Hosea Hot Stuff 'n Cold Too had assured, was impossible. Needless to say, I was glad when morning arrived; and I arose very early, no later than 8:30 - still hearing rain. So vivid was the sound that I ran to the window. And what a monstrous horror greeted me. For, alas, it had not been my imagination at all playing tricks on me but, rather, the weather. It had rained the live-long night. Not only that, but it had filled the gully surrounding my house - turned it, in fact, into a virtual moat. It was all I could do to keep from banging my head against the window and screaming.
I dressed and ran downstairs. I opened the front door to look out. And, lo and behold, the water rushed past my door in a torrent as if a dam had burst upstream. So turbulent was it that I got splashed by what I can only refer to as the spray.
How deep? I wondered. How deep does it run, this river? How deep?
I called my workers to come have a look, asking them what was to be done.
"We best get out our swimsuits," someone suggested.
"Not me!" another objected. "I swim in no untreated pools!"
"I've got to get to the other side," I insisted.
"Why?" it was asked.
"Because it's there, silly," someone said.
"Careful with your choice of words," I cautioned. "Let alone your levity at a time like this, I've got to get to town."
"Get a helicopter," someone suggested.
"I'd make it a helium copter if I were you," offered another, "that way you'll know it won't sink."
"I say old man," came a familiar voice, "why not try a boat?"
I did not like taking advice from that person; however, he had a point. I went and looked in the Yellow Pages under Boatmen. I found one who advertised "small rescues, no more than 3 persons and 2 pets. No cargo please." I dialed.
"Hello. Smitty's Smergencies. Smythe-Pickering speaking. Please state your business."
"My name is Roland Domby, I live at 101 Industrial Pike. My home is entirely devastated by a flood, and I've got to get to town, the sooner the better."
"How many victims stranded?"
"Just myself," I replied.
"Soonest I can get there is 11 A.M. All my boats are tied up just now. Got a man over at Dry Pond Estates, a Miss Washburn is stranded and has to get to work; another man's on his way now to the mall: a water main broke, flooded the sporting goods store, Metricula's hanging onto a beam by a fishing line; got two boats out at Camp Wonton getting some camp counselors away from a drywell. Nope, 11's the soonest."
"Alright," I said, "that should give me enough time."
Well, 11 came and went, and so did 11:30; then it got to be 11:45; and, before I realized it, it was noon. I tried again and again calling Chipper but there was no answer. I was truly desperate. "I may have to swim across," I half resolved when, just as I was standing in the open doorway trying to assess the depth, up pulled an old red pickup, behind it a small power boat in a trailer.
"Hurry! Please hurry!" I called.
"Don't jump! God, don't jump!" came the return cry.
Presently the boat was in the moat; the motor, however, refused to start. The boatman brought out a set of oars from the bed of his truck and rowed across.
"Roland Domby I presume? Smythe-Pickering here," he introduced himself. "Hop in, we'll go for a little spin." I readily complied.
"Bye-bye!" my workers, gathered at the door, called. I waved back.
"They're staying behind?" Smythe-Pickering inquired of my workers.
"Yes, they'll weather the storm here," I replied.
"They're either heroes or fools," he observed. "Or a bit of both."
In time, the water, so vile, so fierce, so threatening, was crossed.
"Damn!" I explained. "I forgot to call a taxi!"
"Don't worry, you're not the first man to lose his head in an emergency. Why, just this morning I had to fish the Secretary of the City Council out of the fountain that sits outside City Hall. Drunk as a skunk; been on a binge; seems they went and changed a word in their Policy, and, before he knew it, he was out of a job - quite an emergency, you'll have to admit. Couldn't handle it. Few men can. Gist of it all is, hop in old Lizzie here, I'll take you to town myself!"
And so he did. And I thanked him. But all to no avail, for when I reached my destination, there was neither chip nor Chipper to be found. No one at all, in fact, at the location. I was heart sick.
"Cheer up," Smythe-Pickering said, sensing my disappointment, "things could get worse."
Son of a bitch! I thought, you would have to say that of all things! And, sure enough, they did get worse.
As I discovered in the most humiliating fashion imaginable (what happened had the distinctive feel of Satan about it: for I was hit with nothing less than a two pronged torment), not only had the fabulous computer chip I sought after gone to another - that other was none other than my nemesis, It the Creature Without Scruples or any other manner of fairness. And how did this most dreadful event come to my attention? Was I telephoned? Visited by a demon in the dead of night? Accosted in a dark alley? No, none of those, dear reader.
A thoroughly unhappy author, unable even to go home (all of Smythe-Pickering's boats were in use: it seems an earthen dam burst, flooding a small town to the South) having settled in at Bartleby's for the night (luckily they had an available room), sat down before the big color television to forget his troubles. The Mirth and Mayhem Hour was just beginning.
"What's the news?" I was, in my weary misery, most anxious to learn. "Who's eyes were gouged out? Who's cow run over by a train? What other diversions might have occurred this miserable day?" There were plenty, plus a report from Washington concerning the disappearance of the Secretary of the Treasury; some Savings Bonds too were unaccounted for - Series E, various denominations. Both were last seen entering an armored car headed toward Andrews Air Force Base. All manner of speculation surrounded the mystery. Then the weather came on. Hosea Hot Stuff 'n Cold Too came out, carrying a weather vane." You could tell by the rooster what it was. He pulled out a hunting knife and, as a stunned audience watched, slit the vane down the middle. He turned to the camera and, shrugging his shoulders, said "I promised."
Then it happened. From another part of the studio came the evening business report. The Reverend Otis O'Tally of the Society of Capitalists, an eminent local economist as well as a renowned fundamentalist, delivered the report. This is always dry stuff, but suddenly something caught my attention.
"I has been learned that ACCC's newest invention, the Litter-Chip, a silicon chip capable of storing all known literary characters, as well as plot devices, rhyming schemes, rules for dividing meters, and so on, has been purchased by perhaps the greatest living author of all time for an undisclosed price. I refer of course to Silly-Jilly, whose recent 10 volume massive trilogy, 'My Country and Its Rulers Right or Wrong' has just gone into its 100th printing. In other news -"
"Other news!" I stormed. "Ha! As if anything else can top that catastrophe!"
"Hush up," came a voice from one of the other seats, "I want to see this next piece." A wizened face like a prune turned toward me as it spoke these words. I merely stuck my nose in the air and, after dismissing the old gentleman with a well executed "Philistine!" I retired to my room for the night.
First thing the next morning I telephoned my attorney to initiate a lawsuit against both ACCC - or, at least, its representative, Chipper - and the Beast with a Billion Stomachs (for, good reader, that is what I estimate it would take a hack like Silly Jilly to digest the data contained in that chip). Elkins readily agreed. The brief was prepared (and, I might add, was done on beautiful parchment bonded in gold) and summarily submitted to the Court. We asked that the sale be declared null and void since the chip contained my characters as well as those of other authors and therefore its use constituted plagiarism, besides violating the Privacy Act. In addition, we were asking compensation for mental anguish, for writer's block, for obscenity, for harassment and for intent to commit conspiracy. The Court, in the person of Judge Barton Bogglemeinster, took our suit under advisement.
Hours went into days, days became clusters of days, these clusters slowly became a week; my moat finally dried up, I could come and go as I pleased; the first processed silicon was brought forth from my smelter, the smell, mercifully, heading downwind from my house, the lees and poisonous wastes dumped into tin drums which were placed in a vacant lot next door - and still no word on the fate of my lawsuit. My characters began showing up in the most dreadfully pedestrian short stories; even my ideas I was forced to witness the despoilage of, as one after another novel came rumbling hot off the press straight onto the shelves of Dalywample's. I finally took the liberty of calling the Citywide Bar Association to inquire if any lever existed anywhere capable of getting Judge Bogglemeinster off his butt; they referred me to the Society for Prompt Judicial Action, which informed me it would look into the matter sometime next year. In short, dear reader, my poor nerves were frayed clear down to the dendrites. I even toyed with seeing a psychiatrist in order to discover a cure for my bad nerves. Just in the nick of time, as I was dialing the number of a Dr. Simeon Van Perge, the mail arrived. On an impulse I set the receiver down and went to my mailbox.
Lo and behold, dear reader, there it was: a very thick letter bearing the return address of the Claims Court. A spider, apparently lodged in my mailbox, had gotten unbeknownst to me under the flap of the envelope; it nearly scared the life out of me when I opened the letter.
"Who but a fiend would put a spider inside an official document?" I wondered. I was about to crush the hideous beast when my characters came upon me.
"Hey!" they cried. "Don't do that! That's Charlotte!"
"Charlotte? You name a spider Charlotte?" I asked in amazement.
"She lives in a mailbox, doesn't she? She crawls into people's mail, doesn't she? What then but a literary name would you give her?"
I relented, allowing my characters to return the creature to the wilds. They assured me she would not invade my personal correspondence ever again.
I read the letter. It informed me that my various suits would be addressed that coming Tuesday. I was, needless to say, ecstatic, for I well knew there could be but one sane and just outcome of this litigation. I went around the house all weekend singing to myself. "Oh I's dus a wittle itty bitty witer wif a wittle itty bitty caze before the wittle itty bitty court." The weekend flew; so did Monday. And there was Tuesday, and I was on my way to Court.
In retrospect, dear reader, I think what happened just outside the Courthouse was a bad omen. In fact, I know it was. I had barely emerged from my taxi when another of those God-awful pesky peddlers came up to plague me with his wares.
"Flowers for m'lady?" he asked, extending a rather plain looking sort of flower. I assume it was real.
"I have no lady," I replied, attempting to skirt the rather ragged individual who refused to take the hint and remove himself from my path.
"Then for yourself perhaps," he persisted.
"Do I look like someone who appreciates flowers?" I inquired.
"Never too late to learn," came the reply. "Take time to stop and smell the flowers."
"Time? I'm on my way to meet my destiny and you speak to me of time? Tell me: where on earth do you peddlers come from - let alone, where do you stay?"
"Me: I live in a box - a big cardboard box on a vacant lot downtown. I've reinforced the box with plaster of Paris. How I came to be there is very simple: I sold flowers. All my life. I had a little shop. I did fair; not well, but I made enough to get along. But I sold out. A conglomerate, a big national chain of flower shops, came along. They offered me a good price. I took it, thinking that with the profit I could always start another shop. And I did. Only one thing: by the time I got everything going again, the big chain was already firmly entrenched. They had a team of specialists; they could design anything from a wreath to a float in the 4th of July parade. What could I design? Simply arrangements, that was all. They gave shows. They had famous celebrities handing out free corsages every other weekend. They started having floerobic classes, where the ladies could dance while they arranged flower baskets. I couldn't even begin to compete. So I went out of business. All my profit was gone, so was my store, so were all my flowers. I took a job selling flowers on street corners of busy intersections. But we were on production, me and the kids who worked with me. I couldn't meet my quota, so I lost that job. I sort of drifted awhile; then I decided to set down and assess my life on this planet. That's when I realized. I've always loved flowers. But I found I hated production. So what I do, I grow my own, weather permitting, on parcels of public land; I have to be careful I'm not observed though, or else they confiscate my flowers. That only happened once. I had planted some zinnias out behind City Hall. I live all year long on what I make selling what few flowers I do. It's enough. And my box is warm it stays warm enough most of the year. And when winter gets here, I pick up and move South. I've decided that in a society such as ours, the only job, the only life worth having is that of a peddler - a hobo, if you will. Take it or leave it. Same with the flower."
"If you don't mind, I'll leave it," I said. "But tell me: how is it your box doesn't get carted off? Or you evicted from it?"
"Quite simple," the peddler replied, "just as I've plastered it on the inside, so too on the outside. With advertising. It's camouflaged, you see. Unlike a box merely inhabited by a human dweller, one advertising something is perfectly safe from official scrutiny or removal or any other inconvenience. So long as I keep my ads up to date, and make certain no outdated product gets advertised, no one'll ever bother me again. For in America, with cryogenics and tax shelters, there is only one certainty: the inviolability of advertising, the sanctity of ad space. The rest is, as the man said, 'silence.'"
"What man said that?"
"A very great fool."
"Oh, okay," I said.
Incidentally, I did not purchase the flower. One must at no cost encourage the proliferation of these peddlers. Indeed, I had a good mind to report him - and would have, had I known his street address. After all, since he only used the ads to conceal his presence and not to seriously advertise anything, did his box not constitute false advertising? But then, I had my own affairs to contend with anyway. I went on in.
And, dear reader, what I beheld upon entering that Courtroom made my blood run cold. For, there, elevated above the rest of the Court at Judge Barton Brugglemeinster's bench, was, of all the incredible coincidences, the very Philistine who, the night of my stay at Bartleby's, had so insulted my sense of decorum with his insistence upon watching the evening news.
"God bless me I'm done for!" I moaned. Oh how I wished for Mrs. Siddon's wig, gloves, dress and bag just then. I took a deep breath and walked up to meet my destiny. And yes, my dearest reader, just as I feared (and you too, no doubt), Judge Bogglemeinster immediately recognized me. You might say "But of course, dear author, it is only natural he should recognize you: you are, after all, a man of no small fame; and, having time and again made public appearances, how could he fail to recognize you?" Ah, but to this I must counter: "Never forget: the man is a Philistine - do you really think he watches Joey Mertle's The Great Talkers? or any other show I would have appeared on?" No, dear reader, it was quite clear he recognized me from Bartleby's.
"Court is in session!" he cried in a New England voice not unlike that of his wife before whom I had also appeared. "Will the plaintiff come forth! Will the defendant come forth! Will the Clerk of Court please return my gavel!" All three actions were taken. I came forth; Chipper and I both came forth; the Clerk of Court came forth, removing some grime from the gavel with a paper towel.
"Here, your honor," said the Clerk as he handed the judge his gavel. "We'll not be plagued with roaches again soon, I warrant!" he explained.
"I'll make this brief," Judge Bogglemeinster began the rendering of his decision. And, dear reader, I just knew in my bones what that would be. I was determined to remain calm. I kept repeating to myself over and over during the decision "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."
"I have weighed the evidence," said the Judge, "I have considered the appropriate laws. I cannot see the Copyright Law, as amended, as applying in this case. There is, in effect, a higher law come into play, which renders the issue of copyright moot. As precedent in deciding this suit, I cite the Storage and Housing Act of 1977. I quote the relevant passage: 'That which is, or could be supposed to be, or if it were would automatically be, in storage, is covered and attended and/or the subject and/or object of said law.' Clearly only one conclusion consistent with the spirit of this law could be drawn. Matter which is in storage cannot be at the same time in some other medium. In this instance, it cannot be in a printed form simultaneously. And, applying the principle of sequential hierarchy, I find that commerce, under which belongs all matters pertaining to storage, takes precedence over all artistic concerns. Hence, stored matter carries greater weight in the eyes of the Law than does printed matter. That which is stored, even temporarily, must ever be considered to be in said condition 'In Eternum.' It cannot therefore occupy any other condition. Accordingly, I hereby find for the defendants. The lawsuits are therefore dismissed as frivolous. Plaintiff must pay all Court fees. This case is closed. Court is recessed."
A most dejected author proceeded from Judge Bogglemeinster's Court. Need I say that as I left I was sorely taunted by that most hideous of all monsters, It with a Head Fifty Times Its Size? The reader knows who I mean. Nor will I repeat the horrible taunts heaved upon me. As for Chipper, he said nothing. As for me, I - dear, precious, most understanding of all readers - vowed vengeance. My good name was compromised; the very identities of my characters had been robbed me; my finances were severely tried; plus, I had no sooner walked from the Courtroom than the most truly frightening thing ever encountered since time began rose up in front of me like the very devil himself.
Before me, not three feet away, was the daily paper, its headline like a fire-brand against the marble foyer of the Court building. I drew near, thinking surely I had in my distraught state simply imagined that headline or, at the very least, mis-read it. But no: the closer I got, the clearer it became. It read thus: "Rodon charged in massive stock fraud!" I picked up the paper and read the article. Not only had my stock plummeted to less than a penny a share, it was non-existent. Oh, there was stock - plenty of it; but, as I discovered, nothing to back it. How could that be? I wondered. Why, even my banker had bought it! Now, here I was, charged with stock fraud. Truly - truly - only in so damnable a world as this could such a vicious thing occur. And me just denied justice! I was resolved now more than ever to get even with my nemesis and detractor for all the damage wrought against me. I had no doubt that It had a hand somewhere in ruining my company too. Well, It would pay, and pay dearly, I swore. It would pay.
I have told my most worthy readers already that I planned to extract justice in its purest form: vengeance; and that I deemed my rival primarily responsible for these terrible events which had plagued me of late. I now have the great pleasure of announcing that the occasion permitting me retribution was not long in coming, though the occasion was itself a veritable mockery of me. But I vowed this would be the last time the stupidity of the public insulted my genius.
Barely three days had elapsed since I was handed the infamous decision dismissing my lawsuit as frivolous when I received a circular from the Mall announcing its semi-annual Sidewalk Sale. Shoes and socks, washers and dryers, TVs and stereos, hats and coats, gloves and scarves, shirts and pants, motor oil and tires, batteries and anti-freeze, nuts and bolts, laxatives and vitamins, baseballs and golf clubs, gold and silver - in short, anything that was, was reduced for a quick sale. Even pizza and cake and ice cream could be had by the weary shopper for a steal. In addition, a dazzling array of special events was planned. There would be aerobic dancing for the ladies; arm wrestling for the men; puppets and clowns and jugglers for the children; demonstrations of various health aids for the hypochondriacs; even a debate between the proponents respectively of Mechanistism and Entropisticism was scheduled. I noticed, too, where the United National Businessmen's Bank and Exchange was opening a new branch where a gallery had previously been; the gallery had gone out of business. A vice-president of the bank would be on hand to officiate and to personally hand out balloons to the first one hundred customers. The circular noted that, due to recent plumbing problems, Metricula's Sporting Occasions would be located totally along the sidewalk in front of the store. Then, turning to the last page of this otherwise splendid little brochure, I saw something which at first made my blood run cold then, the more I thought about it, made my blood grow hot. For there, on page seventeen, was a full color portrait of so ugly a creature I wondered at the mall management putting it in their advertisement lest it scare away customers. Realist that I am, I quote verbatim from the ad.
"World renowned author Silly Jilly will appear Friday night at 8 o'clock in front of Dalywample's to give a demonstration of the newest miracle in high-technology: a computer chip capable of storing all known literary characters. With him will be his entire staff - agent, attorney, personal secretary, public relations man, stock broker, market analyst, even his pollster, his tailor and his valet. Together they will show what a great leap into the future this chip represents. Free bookmarks bearing Silly Jilly's likeness and personally autographed by the author will be distributed. There will also be free refreshments: the new Jilly Jellies: candy treats with ten simulated fruit flavors; plus Silly Tea, that special blend of teas with that oh so special taste. Don't miss this stunning performance."
So odious was this passage that it took three pens to get it written; each one gave up after but a sentence. I don't know if they went dry or simply rebelled against the words they were writing; I suspect the latter though, since these pens have been with me since I fist took pen in hand.
"So," I thought aloud, "8 o'clock Friday is it? Well, good. That gives me three whole days to plan my strategy. And as for you, Mr. 'World Renowned Author': your performance will indeed be stunning. The whole world will perhaps be stunned. So just wait. And just see. Just you see, Mr. 'Author.' Just you wait and see."
I would need help: so great an undertaking as the execution of my revenge required more than simply one person; besides which, as my nemesis would have his entire loathsome entourage - his army of Philistines as it were - I would need a similar troupe. I could not summon my friends and advisers on such short notice: Big Bob, my PR man, was still in Hollywood overseeing his protégé Panzer's career; my attorney, Elkins, was tied up defending my printer on various charges; my agent had gone on a vacation with his secretary and another young lady. No, I would have to look elsewhere. And I knew just where. I summoned my characters; even as I labored plotting my revenge I took time out to inspire them to the occasion.
"You," I said, looking down upon the assembled group, "all of you have been monstrously - I say monstrously - wronged! You have been cheated, abused, disserviced and humiliated."
"You don't have to apologize," someone said. I had no time for levity just then.
"Silence!" I commanded. "This matter is far too serious for any such distractions. Let me for God sake explain what has happened. All of you here have been robbed - yes, I said robbed! Oh not of your money, your possessions, even the clothes off your back - no, not any of these have been stolen; but something far, far more precious. For I say unto you this very day, no less a thing that your identities - your very identities - have been pilfered! You, my dearest, most beloved, most truly wondrous of all workers ever known or that ever could be known: you, my precious friends, you - all of you - have been squeezed - your identities crushed! - into a billionth of an inch of silicon circuitry which sits inside a computer chip which, I have just learned, will be on display the day after tomorrow. Imagine: your naked souls, on display, at...oh the humiliation, the degradation, the monstrous injustice...at the Mall! Yes, you heard correct: your souls, your very souls, on display for all the mangy public to come gape and gawk at, at the Shopping Mall. Where just any loathsome shopper might pick and probe at your hearts and minds and, yes, your very souls. Oh, dear friends, it cannot be. We cannot allow such a mocking travesty of decency, of freedom, why of the very principles this great nation stands for! To sit by and do nothing, to merely watch this evil spreading through the very shops we shop in, the very sidewalks we walk, the very streets we ride on - to do absolutely nothing is to lie down and let evil pave its way over us to the very soul of this land. If we do nothing today, tomorrow the very malls in our Capitol we shall find immersed upside down in evil. For, make no mistake, what we sit idly and let be done to us now, will in time be done a thousand-fold throughout our nation, until no man's identity is safe any longer! Can we - dare we - stand for this? Stand still for this? Tell me: can we?"
I had truly roused my people. They spoke their reply, not with a whisper, not even with a shout but with a single cry of righteous patriotic indignation.
"No!" they cried, all as one. "No! No! A thousand times no! Never! Never! No, never, a thousand times never!"
"Then we must be there," I said. "Friday, 8 o'clock. At the Mall. In front of Dalywample's. The fate of this nation - no less a thing than that - lies in the balance. We must be there!"
"We will! We will! We will!"
"God bless you, yes, oh yes, yes, yes - a thousand times yes! - we shall! We will! We will!" I rejoined their cry. Zeal filled the air, as did a delicate stench from my smelter - but, never mind, it was the scent of commerce, conjoined with that of patriotism, to produce a dedication and a commitment: to truth, to justice, to - yes, I dare say it! - to the American Way! To all this, and heaven to. Come Friday. At 8. At the Mall. Vengeance will be mine. At last, at long long last mine. In the name of the Almighty, and the all good, and the all-American. Amen.
My soul filled with the fervor of victory, I betook myself back upstairs, to my study, to my plan. I sat at my desk, a beautiful cherry wood original from Fashionable Furnishings. I couldn't help admiring its rich red tones, or the elegant bronze fittings on each drawer. On top of my desk were my blueprints for victory. Roughly, I followed the design for the smelter the great civil engineer Zimrod Zardon had left behind; I made appropriate variations to allow for another medium being the mode of translating it into reality: action, not fiberboard. Plus, from memory, I had drawn up a floor plan of the Mall. Holding the two up to the light, I beheld the former transposed over the latter. I was so close to discovering the relationship - the key, as it were - which would inspire my strategy.
"Perhaps," I thought, "I'm working too hard. Perhaps I should read instead." I picked up an edition of Caesar's Gallic Campaign I had received once for a birthday present. "Too dry," I decided. So I tried a novel. But I couldn't really get into it. Finally, I turned on the TV. And there, dear reader, on that Magic Box, I found the key I was looking for. Hosea Hot Stuff 'n Cold Too was giving the local forecast - I was glad I turned in just then, so as to learn if it would be raining Friday evening: if so, we'd need umbrellas - assuming it did not rain so much as to trap us inside my house. Hosea had with him a baby hyena. It seemed to relish the clever repartee between weatherman, sports caster and anchorman; every barb clearly tickled its little fancy. And why not? they were very entertaining; I too chuckled a time or two. Suddenly the broadcast was interrupted.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your regularly scheduled show to bring you the President of the United States."
The smiling features of my President looked out at me from the TV. "My fellow Americans," he announced, "I have, this day, declared War - war on inflation, stagflation, recession, unemployment and high taxes. As you know, my Secretary of the Treasury has been missing these past three weeks. It is time now for speculation to end. He has been on a secret mission from me to the Third World. His aim was to find developing nations willing to exchange their goods for our ills. At first, success eluded him, until he got the idea to throw in a massive simulation of our culture. They could no longer refuse. Therefore, I am this day creating a Commission to gather all the finest aspects of our culture and synthesize them into an as yet undetermined form which we will then ship to all parts of the globe. I am recommending the Secretary of Treasury for the Legion of Honor. Thank you, and may God bless."
"We return you to your regularly scheduled program."
Hosea, all set to read Friday's forecast, had to abandon the project long enough to remove his hyena from the studio; it was carrying on as if its sides would split, poor thing.
"He'll be back later with the forecast," advised the anchorman. "Meanwhile, we have in our studio a man who has already been nominated to a post on the President's new Commission of Culture. Good evening to you."
The camera faded to orange hideousa, the color of pulp. "Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!," it had the gall to respond to the President's great message. I turned the damned thing off, only turning it back on when I assumed it would be safe. I was wrong. It the Creature from the Lair of Neither Shame Nor Taste was plugging Its appearance Friday at the Mall.
"We'll be there with bells on!" It promised. "Great big orange bells, so you'll know who we are! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!" A terrible squeal came from backstage; no doubt the hyena was responding to what it had just heard.
"So," I thought, waiting for the weather report, "you'll have on orange bells, will you? Aha!" I exclaimed all of a sudden as a fabulous idea came to me, "Well, we shall just see about that! For I've got just the thing! Just the thing for you and your orange bells! Just the thing!"
My strategy had come into a whole. I sat back and relaxed, my great effort finally paying off. I noticed a slight chill though, so I got up and did a few jumping jacks to get the circulation going. "There: that's better," I said.
Besides having a full-fledged strategy, I had as well Hosea's personal guarantee of perfect weather - his own words: "Perfect weather - or I'll eat my weather satellite!" That was good enough for me. I sat back down, patiently awaiting Friday, and the big moment. The big victory. The coming of justice. The coming of Friday.
And, of course, as all the world knew it would, Friday came. In Washington D.C., a parade in honor of the Secretary of the Treasury was held. But here, in my home town, a really great event took place. My Mall had a sidewalk Sale, and I was on my way to it, together with my troops; and, in little satchels, we carried our weapons of war, the ones my strategy had designed. History was waiting to be made.
We arrived at our destination in a small U-Haul Van I had hired for the occasion. At 7:15 P.M. exactly we went out and got in, I in the cab, to drive, the others in back, from where they would emerge upon reaching the Mall. It's true I had no driver's license; true also that I had never driven a motor vehicle. Nevertheless, necessity summoned my skills, deeply ingrained as they may have been. There was a time when I would have had my trusted right hand man do the driving, but that time was past. He could no longer be trusted.
"Just a moment," I had announced before letting my workers out of my house. "We will not all be going. Epsom Salts will remain behind."
"I say old bean, what for?"
"I think you know what for," I replied. "I saw your show. It was appalling that you could hold me - of all people! - up to public ridicule like that. No one but an ungrateful scoundrel could have ever dreamed up so defaming a presentation. So, no, you will not be going. Let the Great Epton spend the time he could be fighting beside his colleagues getting his things together. Because I want you out of here when I return. You have served your purpose. And any back pay you may feel you're owed, you can submit a claim to Small Claims Court. Oh, and one more thing: you can drop the phony British accent! Your game is up. And you are out! Goodbye - and good riddance!"
We all hopped in my U-Haul and were on our way. I admit I had a little trouble at first driving the unwieldy vehicle; but by the time we arrived I had pretty much gotten the hang of it. I did hit a few cars parked in the lot - but, my lord, this was my first time. None were badly damaged. At least I didn't run over anyone; I did come close though, along the way. The jogger who had initially steered me to the Creatatorium, recently recovered from his broken ankle, was out running the streets again. Just as I passed him, another vehicle approached. I veered to miss it, and in doing so I brushed the jogger very lightly, knocking him down a slight embankment. I certainly would have stopped to make sure he was alright but, whether it was the excitement of the moment or my relative inexperience or my haste to reach the Mall by 8, I was absolutely unable to find the brakes. I searched the entire dashboard, but to no avail. Whoever designed these trucks for U-Haul owes them and the driving public an apology.
Luckily, by removing my foot from the accelerator pedal, I was able to slow down enough that the impact with the car parked ahead of me stopped my truck. It was evidently more of a jolt than I thought, for when I opened the rear door to let my troops out, I found them on the floor, everyone of them, thrown almost to the other end of the truck; and I distinctly remember leaving them right by the door. No one was hurt though, just shaken a bit. Nor were any of their weapons damaged.
I motioned for them to follow. Single file we trooped through the parking lot to the South entrance to the Mall. We halted before going in; I instructed my troops to put on the masks I had secured. Each was a likeness of myself; I had had them specially designed from a photograph I'd had taken at the height of my success. We entered.
"Look mommy!" a little boy cried out. "Are those robbers? Are they going to rob us?"
"No dear," came his mother's reply; she was carrying several packages; "we've already been robbed quite enough tonight!"
No one else commented on our disguises, though a few did look - and why not? my likeness is public property, is it not? We slowly, carefully made our way to the second floor. Once upstairs, we moved with ever greater stealth, the escalator having deposited us only four stores down from Dalywample's - all part of my master plan. These were all four clothing stores, and, as I knew they would, all four had a number of rolling racks filled with clearance clothes out in the walkway: this was the very cornerstone of my plan.
I checked my watch; we were early; it was only 7:50. We would have to wait where we were at least 10 more minutes.
"Look like you're shopping," I instructed my troops.
"May I help you?" a saleslady came up to inquire of one of my men.
"No, I'm just shopping," he replied.
"Any special kind of slip you were looking for?" she asked. As it happened, my man was situated outside Flo Fromage's Lingerie and Handbag Boutique. He said no, he was just shopping.
I was accosted by a matron anxious to sell me disposable diapers. I had situated myself outside Tats for Tots; there was no rolling rack full of toddlers' togs, which was precisely why I chose this location: I had a clear view of Dalywample's, just one store down. I declined the offer of diapers.
"Waiting for the little woman," I explained. "Just keeping an eye on the future." This seemed to satisfy the matron, who walked away.
From where I was - a good place not only for spying on Dalywample's, but for observing just about anything going on just about anywhere in the Mall - I noticed, across the way, coming out of the new United National Businessmen's Bank and Exchange, none other than my very dear friend, Horace Hokum-Poicus. I nearly waved, but stopped myself in time: I did not want my presence revealed just yet.
What a wonderful Mall, I thought to myself. Two floors full of commerce; an open space in the center; a walkway covering all four sides of the rectangular square; even a railing to prevent careless shoppers from falling to their deaths. Most wonderful. And, above, a skylight, like a solid sheet of cellophane. Truly wonderful.
I could hear music too - lively, bouncy music. I looked down, and who should I see leading a group of aerobic dancers but Michelle from the Creatatorium; her partner Jerry was equally busy, engaged in overseeing an arm wrestling tournament. The grunts seemed timed to the sprightly beat of the aerobics.
Something caught my eye from a distant corner of the Mall. I knew very well the store there was Metricula's Sporting Occasions; I knew equally well the three figures in the doorway were those of my realtors, Barnhide, Leggitt and Schoop-Schoop. This Mall, as I had learned along the way, was one of their properties. Doubtless they were inspecting Metricula's for water damage after the recent plumbing problem.
"My, my," I was about to note, "it's like old home week," when, of all people on this Earth, who should I behold marching through the Mall distributing pamphlets but my very dear friend Gregory Tchoo! Indeed, not only could I see him, I distinctly heard him as well.
"And I say to you," he spoke in that eloquent politician's voice, "when I am elected President of these United States, I promise to secure for each and every one of you an important post in the diplomatic corps!" A tremendous burst of applause greeted this announcement.
At a diagonal from me I noticed all of a sudden a string of what appeared to be candles approaching. Indeed they were candles. And leading this slow, silent parade, carrying the biggest candle, was none other than Reverend Pastor Goodness. I'd heard he was back in town, but never expected to see him here, least of all on the busiest shopping night of the year. I had little time to marvel, though, for no sooner had I seen him than a tap on my shoulder startled me.
"Domby," a familiar voice said. "I thought it was you." I turned, and there, smiling at me, was Sister Mary Margarine. "I'm so glad I ran into you," she said. "I must caution you, at all costs, to avoid the Arcade.
"No chance I'll go there," I replied, my recent encounter there still fresh in my mind.
"Good. For I think I've finally tracked down those demons. They are haunting the machines in that place. It was all set to reopen, till one of the workers detected a peculiar object moving along Pac-Man's maze. Then another strange moving object. Then another. Then there were similar sightings within the other games. It could only be demons. I'm on my way now to the hardware and paint store for some spirit gum. I hope if I smear it on this gummy bear I've made, it will draw them out. Then, if I'm lucky, they'll stick to the bear long enough for me to take them to a secluded place. Well, I'm off. Wish me luck. Oh Mr. Buchner!" she cried suddenly. I turned, and I too caught sight of not just Buchner but his assistant Eitnein going into the P&T Novelty Store. They noticed me, so I waved.
"Got a big séance coming coming up," Buchner called to us, "we've got to get a few props. Catch you later!"
"Don't go near the Arcade!" she ran off, warning our mutual friends as she did.
Next - and, as I said, the whole world seemed to be congregated here this evening - I spied Kretchner, the green grocer, coming out of the Lancaster Steak House, a toothpick at his lips. He didn't see me, and as it was already well past 8, I made no effort to get his attention.
Meanwhile, at Dalywample's, it had begun. The demonstration. I motioned my troops. Each one took hold of a specially designated rolling rack - the fullest they could find. Slowly, they began moving, pushing the rack ahead of them, following my lead.
"Stop!" someone cried. "Where are you taking those?" I had anticipated as much, so I had briefed my men what to say.
"Federal Trade Commission, ma'am," came the studied reply. 'we're confiscating these sale items. You'll get others just like them before close of business." It worked like a charm. To get somewhere in this world you need only drop the right name. We were on our way.
An army of clothing would be seen rolling its way toward Dalywample's. From below or across the way only the racks could be seen, not the men moving them. Of course people were awed.
"Look!" I heard a cry from below. "Those clothes are moving by themselves!"
"It must be ghosts!" came another cry.
Then, suddenly, we were upon the enemy. He and his men were gathered outside the bookstore. Miss Washburn had just introduced him, calling him "The Man of the Hour!" The people applauded. He was just beginning. You could hear the myriad tinkling of his orange bells, and those of his men. Before him was a display table of the sort clearance books are usually placed on for quick sale; on it was a personal computer, all programmed and ready to go. The enemy was speaking.
"This little lady here sure knows her Ps and Qs," Silly Jilly informed the crowd. At first I thought he was referring to Miss Washburn, but when he added that "she's got diodes galore and a great big cathode ray just raring to be filled," I realized he must mean the computer. "Yes, sir, old Betsy here's a real live gem! And I say to you, old girl: Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" The audience burst into applause.
"Now!" I ordered as my men pulled up in front of Dalywample's. "Dismount!" I ordered (actually, given the nature of the transportation, it would have been more opt to have said "Disrobe!" - but even I got caught up in the moment.) "Draw your weapons!" I ordered. "Fire!" I ordered.
"Hold it right there!" some crazy old man who had stepped from amidst the crowd cried out. "You don't talk to a computer that way! You talk in Cofopas: Cofopas! Not your piddling English. Cofopas! The language I've invented. The language you use when addressing computers. The language you'll all be using soon - even to talk to one another. The universal language. The language of the future. Based on all three of the great computer dialects: your Cobol, your Fortran, your Pascal. Cofopas! The greatest advance in human learning. Cofopas. The language -"
It was amazing that that maniac got that much said as quickly as he did. Because, as God is my witness, I refused to remand or countermand my order. Even as he was blabbering I was reissuing my order. "Fire!" I commanded. "Fire One!" "Fire two!" "Fire Three!" "Fire Away!"
And, blessed reader, we did just that. As if from nowhere eight aluminum cans stood suddenly poised in mid-air, each pointing toward a target. And, as quickly as you could say Jack-in-the-Box, eight sprays of violet all purpose paint shot out.
But of all the curses. "Curses! And curses! And more curses!" I cried. We had been betrayed. Sold out. A spy had foiled our plan. For no sooner did our anxious fingers trigger the nozzles than out came eight aluminum cans to counter ours, and from them, at a nod from the enemy, eight sprays of awful orange paint shot out at us, their paint striking ours in mid-air just above the personal computer. The audience screamed in terror, realizing they were witness to a guerilla assault. The old crazy man threw himself on old Betsy to protect her diodes, dials and her cathode from paint, mumbling to her in a horrible gibberish that sounded as if tiny holes had come off a key punch card and were whooshing the passing air into syllables of an almost mathematical rhythm, purple-orange paint all the while dripping down on him.
"Oh God!" someone from across the way cried out, "there's an alien being born from that computer over there!" Evidently Pastor Goodness must have overheard this, for he asked if there were a birthing. "I will christen thee!" he announced, proceeding at once to the melee. When he arrived, instead of christening the alien, it was he who, in a sense, got christened - in a most unholy purple and orange splatter.
Meanwhile Gregory Tchoo, thinking this a perfect opportunity to demonstrate his leadership ability, came running. "In the name of the government of these United States, I order you to cease and desist!" However, at the most inopportune moment, a stray spray hit him in the mouth, slurring his final word to something like "deshit." (There, in a single blow, went his chances for the Presidency.)
Before I knew what was happening, almost everyone in the Mall had scrambled to where the cries of battle were coming from. Dalywample's had never seen so many shoppers. Miss Washburn, skillfully ducking the paint, was going in and out of the multitude distributing books and booklets - any which she could save from being stained. "Half price!" she was hawking, true blue merchant that she was. "One half off! Or more!"
It seemed like hours - and, indeed, it would seem impossible for so much to transpire in less time - but in reality only a very few moments had passed since I first gave the order to Fire. And here was virtually the whole Mall come upon the scene.
"Vile waste of energy!" I knew that voice: the Entropisticist had spoken.
"Vile indeed!" rejoined his arch-foe the Mechanisticist. "Thanks to fluorocarbons, paint can be used almost faster than it can be made! Long live the fluorocarbons!"
"You agree to pay, then, I take it, for the lost ozone?"
"Put it on my bill!"
"Bill? I'll bill you a bill, you wastrel you!" Thereupon the Entropisticist grabbed a spray can from someone and ran after the Mechanisticist. "Hold still polluter while I give you a taste of your own medicine!" The Mechanisticist, all the while he was being chased, busily recited every known theorem and axiom in hopes of hitting upon one which could halt his pursuer in his tracks. He had a long road to go.
Then, suddenly, no sooner was one can taken up from me than they were all taken, even as our fingers depressed the little red styrene nozzles. But taken...by who? Who? Who was there, whose hands replaced ours upon our weapons? Whose? Where from, these invisible hands? Where from?
"Ghosts!" people cried in alarm. "Ghosts!" "Spirits!" "Goblins!" "Goblets!" someone mistakenly cried.
"What's the problem here?" asked the psychic Bogdon Buchner, who had just now come upon us.
"They've taken our spray paint," I replied. "See - there! They've got it, taking it off somewhere!"
"Ah," he replied, "poltergeists. I've seen them many times. Many times."
Next upon the scene, as the especially alert reader may have already surmised, was Sister Mary Margarine, carrying a headless, armless, legless and tailless gummy bear in one hand, a can of turpentine in the other. "I almost had them," she said. "If only I'd gotten the spirit gum on the gummy bear in time. Now it's too late. Can anyone use this?" she asked, holding up the can. It was grabbed at by just about everyone.
"What next?" I asked her.
"I'm going undercover," the nun explained. "I've just passed my exam. Tomorrow I receive my certificate. I am now a member in good standing of the Famous Witches Broomcloset - you've perhaps heard of it. I'm determined to track those demons down, even if I must do it, not as a nun, but as a witch. For now, goodbye. I'm off to find a nice white cat." Only after she left did it occur to me she required a black cat.
And finally, dear reader, upon the scene...was the police. The very ones who had served me with a summons on the trumped-up charge of plagiarism.
"We're here to arrest you in the name..." they began. Dear reader, what happened next tipped me off how my enemy knew to prepare himself with counter-weapons, for, in a voice clearly that of the policeman, but just as clearly coming from behind me, while both policemen stood before me, came the completion of the charge.
"We're here to arrest you in the name...of the father, and the son and the Holy Ghost!"
Both policemen turned red. For my part, I turned to look over my shoulder. And there, taking his bow, was none other than the infamous Epson Salts.
"How could you?" I asked.
"I work freelance, old bean. Sorry." Then he was gone.
I was handcuffed and led away. "What am I being charged with?" I asked.
"Battery," they replied.
Battery indeed! That wasn't the half of it!
The charges against me, when fully reckoned by the police, included not only battery but also destruction of property, receiving stolen goods, conspiring to commit fraud, obstruction of justice, creating a public nuisance, inciting to riot, assault with a lethal weapon, commission of mayhem, impersonation of a public official, plus illegally parking a moving vehicle in a fire lane.
Well aware that my beloved readers are as dumbfounded by such a string of absolutely unfounded changes as I was, I shall take a moment to explain the genesis of each, one by one. To begin with, the property I was said to have destroyed was a display of books Miss Washburn was unable to save from getting sprayed: hardly real property, since they were works of fiction, every one of them. The "stolen goods" I was accused of receiving were the rolling racks of sale clothing I had my workers appropriate as cover for their movements - it was alleged that since they were following me, they must have been delivering the goods to me. (I might add that, also because of the rolling racks, my workers were charged en masse with concealment of a crime - clearly a fabrication if ever there was one.) The "fraud" they said I conspired to commit was presenting myself as a shopper in order to effect an attack on my enemies - an utterly preposterous charge considering I had brought no money with me. As for the "justice" I was accused of obstructing, I have no comment except to note that it was I who was denied justice, not I who denied or obstructed it. The "public nuisance" evidently stemmed from the overall sum of my activities that most fateful of all Friday evenings. I certainly did no such thing as incite to riot: am I responsible because a little purple paint drives a pack of stupid shoppers to a frenzy? And my weapon was deemed lethal merely because the paint contained an inordinately higher concentration of lead - if any notion could be sillier! I know nothing of mayhem: one can hardly "commit" that of which he is totally ignorant. Nor do I know what is meant by having impersonated the head of the Federal Trade Commission, as alleged: I am a writer, not a bureaucrat. And finally, as I discovered only much later, the parking brake of my U-Haul was released while I was in the Mall, causing it to drift into the fire lane; to this day I do not know who was responsible for that - ironically, the only even half-way legitimate charge in the entire lot!
"How do you plead?" I was asked at my arraignment.
"I do not plead at all!" I replied. Only a beggar pleads.
"You refuse to enter a plea?" asked the judge, who, as I later found out, was a distant cousin of the Bogglemeinsters. His name was Otis B.B. Bonglemeinster.
"Not only will I not enter one, neither will I leave one, or for that mater, so much as go near one!" I said.
"I want to see you in my chambers," the judge informed both my attorney and the district attorney. Somehow or another the entire Courtroom thought he meant them as well; so, when he turned around inside his chamber door, he discovered a multitude where he had anticipated but two. He had little choice but to send out for beverages; some of the visitors requested small sandwiches to go with their beverage, but that was seen as too loose an interpretation of the laws of etiquette. Finally, the last guest had gone; the judge consulted the two attorneys. They agreed to postpone action until I had been evaluated by a licensed psychiatrist.
Well this was certainly a new wrinkle. Me - imagine: me - remanded to a shrink. An outrage, to be sure. Naturally I refused, vowing to go to the ends of this earth before I would set foot inside a psychiatrist's office; as a result, my bail was raised. But then, as if fate itself had been monitoring my courageous obstinacy, who should appear before me but my public relations advisor, Big Bob Bulchit. He had just flown in from the coast. Panzer, it seems, had run off to a monastery to take vows of chastity, obedience and poverty. There, he would make wine.
"I could accept the first two vows," Big Bob confessed, "but not the third. I had no choice but to leave."
When I explained my predicament, he at once cried out in great excitement: "But this is great! Perfectly great! It's wonderful! It's perfect! Perfectly wonderful! It's just what you need to salvage what you can of your reputation! What with the sex scandal, the plagiarism, the stock fraud, now this attempted murder thing - a little craziness is just what the doctor ordered! It's ideal. We'll put you away in a sanitarium for, say, six months or so, making sure it gets leaked to the press. And when you come out, you'll have a ready made reputation as a deranged maniac. The whole world will recognize your genius then! It's perfect. Things couldn't have worked out better if I'd charted them myself."
"Let me think it over," I said. And, of course, the more I thought, the better it sounded. Maybe that was the problem all along: the public, face to face as it were to my genius, simply could not see it in the proper light for my saneness. Sanity was what kept getting in the way. And so it occurred to me that a little madness never hurt anybody.
"Alright," I informed my attorney finally, "I'll go. I'll see the shrink. And the sooner I'm certified crazy the better."
Big Bob was ecstatic when he heard my decision. "This is gonna put you over the top - I swear it will! It's gonna make you a rich man - I mean richer than rich! I've already started mapping out our strategy. We're going to write your memoir: Diary of a Mad Genius. It'll sell a million. Guaranteed!"
I could hardly wait for my appointment. My breath was baited, my horses held, my reins checked (observe good reader: now that I've gone mad, my imagery has gone berserk too!) Suddenly there I was, entering Dr. Hortzmann's clinic in the back of the Off 'n Running Ad Agency. (Reality, it would seem, had gone a little screwy too.)
The clinic was pink stucco on the outside; on the inside, red, green and black variously blended in wallpaper which had cherubs, chariots and cheroots. Lots of cheroots. On the coffee table was a scarab in replica, plus a number of psychology magazines. Scattered among the end tables (one table beside each easy chair: nine in all of each) was ash trays made of butterfly wings under clear laminate. Egyptian looking lamps sat on every third table; a salt and pepper indoor/outdoor rug filled the floor, and dark green drapes hung from a small window beside the entrance. This was the waiting room. I registered with the nurse then took a seat. Presently I was summoned to Dr. Hortzmann's office. He was a man of medium height, a bit thin, jet black hair and horn-rimmed glasses, slightly buck teeth and very thin lips over which protruded a huge mustache.
"Mr. Domby: welcome," he greeted me. "Please seat yourself there," he indicated a small chair rather like a bar stool. He sat in a butterfly chair. "On second thought," he changed his mind, "you sit here, I'll sit there." So we switched places.
"Alright, now, I'm going to start off with a few simple questions," he explained. "First: at what age did you first try to murder your father and marry your mother?"
"I don't recall ever doing that," I replied.
"Too painful, eh? Had to repress it. Next question: have you ever gone mad masturbating?"
I was much too shocked by the question to reply. Dr. Hortzmann sped on to the next one. "Do you cover your head whenever you see a naked man so as to hide your latent homosexual fantasies?"
"I have a touch of asthma," I explained, "under no circumstance would I dare cover my head."
"How's your castration complex coming along?"
"As well as could be expected," I replied, not knowing what else to say to so impertinent an inquiry.
"Just a few more," Hortzmann said. "If you saw a letter lying in the road, what would you do with it?"
"First I'd look around to see if there were any billboards it might have fallen off. Then I'd check mailboxes and house numbers. Now if it were an R, I'd probably just walk off with it."
"What's the difference between a coat and a dress?"
"Well," I pointed out, "a coat nearly always has to be dry cleaned, whereas a dress might be wash and wear."
"A horse and a cow?"
"You get beef from one, glue from the other."
"Mount Rushmore and five phalluses?"
"Pass."
"The Washington Monument and a phallus?"
"Pass."
"An orange and a banana?"
"They're more alike than unalike: they're both harvested at great expense to the producer, who must pay far too high a wage for what little skill is required."
"A tree and a phallus?"
"Pass."
"A snake and a phallus?"
"pass."
"A wooly bear and a phallus?"
"Pass."
"Repeat after me this series sevens: phallus, phallus, phallus, phallus, phallus, phallus, phallus."
"I forgot the first three already," I admitted.
"What does it mean to say 'A stick' - I mean - 'A stitch in time saves nine?"
I considered the proposition - and I must admit it was an intriguing one. It took all my ingenuity to decipher it. "I think," I said, "it was Einstein who first formulated this maxim. He envisioned time as a kind of stitching around space. For every individual stitch, you preserve nine cubits of space, give or take."
"And this one: 'Don't cry over spilled milk'?"
This was a bit easier. "Milk, being white," I replied, "is symbolic of innocence and purity. This wise and true maxim advises the young maid ever to be vigilant to safeguard her virginity."
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?"
"A dead bird is better than two living any day, since all they do is splatter your windshield anyway."
"What if they were phalluses instead of birds?"
"Next question."
"The grass is greener on the other side of the fence?" he asked.
"This confirms Leehewenok's theorem of optics," I said.
"Every cloud has a silver lining?"
"Hide your wealth from prying eyes."
"Don't throw stones if you live in a glass house?"
"This is a trick question, I believe, for glass and stones are of one nature."
In truth, dear reader, it worried me because my answers were much too rational for a madman. Next he had me draw a person; then he gave me a multiple choice quiz; finally he showed me a number of odd looking smears of ink on pages, each of which I dissected piece by piece until the entire pattern was satisfactorily filled in.
"Well, doc," I said when it was all over, "how'd I do?"
"Your responses to the clichés were symptomatic of extremely moderate paranoid schizophrenia, chronic undifferentiated, with slight affectional disorder, exacerbated by an inordinate preoccupation with non-phallic imagery. Your drawing was poorly planned, poorly executed, and inadequate. It contains elements frequently encountered in the drawings of small children, organics and mental defectives."
"Did you say pedantics?"
"Organics."
"Ah. Well, that's some better."
"Your Rorschach was consistent with organic brain syndrome and excessive concretization of fantasy. Not to mention a slight hint of bi-polar disorder complicit by ataxia. All in all, Mr. Domby, it's a very good thing you're an artist - otherwise I would have to recommend you for immediate institutionalization. But, as we all know, a little madness is a good thing for an artist type - the public expects it. So, have a nice day, and I'll see you in six months for your regular checkup. Good day."
The reader's great sorrow at learning my novel failed to make the best seller list save for one fleeting moment might be somewhat ameliorated by the knowledge that it came just fifty copies short of it. And especially ameliorated by its having actually made that list for a single hour before a recount pushed it back off again. I was encouraged to keep trying; and now that my press agent had most skillfully leaked the knowledge of my mental deterioration to the press, this timely boost to my prestige all but guaranteed my future as a great author. But, as I soon discovered, the road would, even now, be a long and hard one, for upon the scene had all of a sudden burst a virtual panoply of gimmicks - yes, I said gimmicks. It disheartened me to see art being fast reduced to a series of side-show trials, such as a mere magician might practice. Where, I wondered, had integrity gone? where had hard work gotten to? and, most of all, what had become of genius? - that a wave of third-rate projects, hodge-podges of superficial and exceedingly banal aesthetics, had crept so inexorably upon the cultural scene? Why, I was even introduced at a cocktail party given by my publisher to a man who openly boasted of being, not a writer at all, oh no, but a computer analyst! Indeed, it is only to warn the gullible reader against such works as are now appearing everyday on the shelves of bookstores that I record his conversation in any detail whatsoever.
His name was Canny Clack; his family, as I discovered, was a major stockholder of the American Computer Chip Corporation. He had spent the first twenty years of his life developing programs for his family's personal computers. He spoke with a decidedly nasal twang.
"I always relished the principle behind the Rubik Cube - which, incidentally, I correctly deciphered in a mere seven minutes. I knew it had important applications for the computer. And as my hobby has for a number of years been art - I have rewritten nearly every major literary work of Western Culture, using proper programming to remove everything extraneous, recombine the various elements according to the superior analytical capacity of the computer, thereby arriving at a truly artistic attainment, not one polluted by the common peccadilloes of mere authors. Most critics have agreed that my synthetic art far excels the original. Be that as it may, my hobby being art, I toyed with recombinant chipterization, until at last I succeeded in devising the perfect pattern. From it, I have created a novel. It simply came tumbling from my circuitry. I called it 'The Pascalian Predilection.' It is set to appear on the market next week. And, true to its exalted nature, it will be stocked in the Technology section of bookstores - not the literature section. I have every reason to believe it will make the best seller list in exactly nine and a half weeks, seventeen hours and three minutes. It will, I calculate, sell 304,000 copies in hardback, just over 3,793,000 in paperback. I expect the Pulitzer. I'm not sure yet of the Nobel. Any questions, now that literature has finally reached the 20th Century?"
"Just one," I spoke up.
"Shoot," Canny Clack said.
"How many phalluses can stand on the hump of a diode?"
I received no reply. A few of the ladies did faint, however, but were quickly revived once they were assured I was quite mad, therefore incapable of really scandalizing anyone. I was asked to leave, which request I gladly complied with.
Outside, my hat and coat already on, my departure was briefly interrupted by a familiar voice. My publisher, Timpony, who had given the party, called to me.
"Domby," he said, his hands still groping about inside the pockets of his trousers, as they had all evening, "I'd like, first of all, to tell you how much I enjoyed the little joke you told in there. I'm sorry it had to be off color; most of all I regret having heard only the punch line. You'll have to tell me the whole joke sometime when I've got the time. As it was I nearly split my sides. What I really wish to say is that I've got a little proposition to offer you. As you know, you...you...oh, you know what I mean...the word for it escapes me just now...that thing you sell...it has that pretty bright cover..."
"My book?" I jogged his memory.
"That doesn't ring a bell...but if you think that's it, I'll take your word on it," Timpony half agreed with the term I related to him. "It just isn't selling well, whatever it is. Plus I understand you've gone crazy. What I have in mind - actually Chipper proposed it - is this: a little therapy, plus a way to maybe widen your public appear a bit. We've taken - Timpony House, that is - a new writer under wing. A very bright little fellow. Very unique talent, I'm told. Bubbling over with personality. Now here's where you come in: I've heard you're a teacher -"
"By some accounts one of the best," I pointed out.
"So much the better. And you teach at a place where teachers congregate and do something involving small children, I believe?"
"Actually, I teach adults. At a university, not a grammar school," I corrected him.
"It's all Greek to me," Timpony confessed. "I wouldn't know grammar from shinola if I saw it." He paused awhile, staring up at the street lamp. "University, you say? Hmm," he mused. "I don't know. I'm reluctant to enroll little Charlie - we call him Charlie because that's his name - at something it takes over four syllables to pronounce. I think you know, Domby, I'd have walked away were this not so important. Is there any other possible name you could use?"
"How about school?"
"That's much better. Now I don't feel any apprehension enrolling him. So, will you teach him? And teach him well?"
"And you say this will widen my public," I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.
"Chipper assures me it would," my publisher replied. "I'm almost sure it was public he said and not pubic."
As much a I detested that double-crossing louse Chipper, I was, after all, a teacher; I could hardly refuse a request to put my great talents toward shaping an impressionable young mind. Therefore, I agreed to accept little Charlie as my first pupil. Timpony thanked me, stating that I would be contacted where the classes would be held. Ah, I surmised, this young writer must be an invalid who cannot get out. So, indeed, true to the finest humanitarian impulses of my profession, I must go to him.
The very next day I was contacted, given the address, as well as the time. My first class would begin on a Thursday evening at 7:15 P.M. I had a full day and a half to prepare my notes: more than enough time to gather my wits about me. I carefully prepared a lesson plan, following the instructions contained in my University's How-To-Teach Brochure, subtitled Teaching For Dummies - though of course it really should have read Teaching To Dummies. It even told which color to use for the notebook, depending what the subject was. Mine being General, I obtained a buff colored binder. Very pretty, my notes.
I summoned a taxi, gave him the address, and was on my way. It was a part of town I had only read about, but never visited. Our fair city, famous not only for its business district, was highly regarded as a center of research and development, mostly of the high-tech variety. The address I gave my driver was 1984 North Reactor Way. Each building we passed, once we turned onto that street from the nearly completed Proffitt Expressway, which led from our business district to this, the science center of town, was brighter, bigger, whiter, more polished and refined than the last, until we came upon the finest, most scientific looking of the lot. As it turned out, this was where I was headed, this excellent building. In fact, of all things, 1984 turned out o be none other than the international headquarters of the American Computer Chip Corporation.
So, I thought upon emerging from the taxi, little Charlie must work here. A scientist by day, he has decided to become an author by night. Quite a fellow. I went in and, stating my name and the purpose of my visit, was escorted to a room on the 13th floor. I had been issued a Temporary Pass by the guard downstairs; I had also been frisked to make certain I carried nothing untoward. A woman at a desk just inside the large, white, fluorescently lit room without windows asked me to have a seat.
"I'll go get Charlie," she said. She seemed to recognize me; and, in truth, she seemed vaguely familiar to me too, though at the moment I could not place her.
Presently she returned. With her was a large, very good natured and very intelligent looking gentleman who greeted me warmly. Trailing behind him was some sort of gadget - a robot, I suppose, a rather quaint looking thing, with vaguely human features, little metallic hands with perhaps alabaster fingers, and little feet. It moved of its own accord. No doubt Charlie was an inventor and had slapped it together. Perhaps it would aid him: carry his books, sharpen his pencils, fetch him, and me as well, snacks and beverages.
"Mr Domby," my new pupil said, "welcome. I can't tell you how pleased we are here at ACCC to have so prestigious a teacher as yourself assist us in this important venture. And, make no mistake, it is important - quite possibly the single most important assignment ever given a teacher. What we're talking about here, Domby, is talent - raw, pure talent. A mighty big talent: mighty big! That kind of big, Domby. Big big. And it's you we've chosen to assist him. You'll be kind of a combination teacher, editor and just plain old Big Brother. And now, without further ado, I'd like to present your new student and fellow literary lion. Domby, meet Charlie. Charlie, this is Domby: be good to him now."
I nearly gagged when the gentleman stepped aside and, coming at me with hand outstretched, was that thing...that gadget...that robot. Holy shit, I thought, that's my pupil?
I had no choice. Having been introduced, protocol demanded I take the little creature's hand in mine and give a good brisk shake. Civilization hung in the balance.
"How do you do?" I said.
"I do as my muse dic-tates," the thing replied in a sing-song monotone, pronouncing each syllable as if it were a word unto itself. "Who are you?" it asked.
I had already been introduced. Nevertheless, this was my pupil. I am Roland R Domby," I replied.
"Hel-lo. My name is Char-lie. I am go-ing to one day be a great au-thor. I know my A-B-Cs. I split no in-fin-i-tives. Ha! Ha! Do you know what an in-fin-i-tive is?"
"Yes, it's an action phrase," I replied.
"That should be ac-tion - please watch your dic-tion in my pre-sense please - just kid-ding. What do you get when you cross a man-u-script with a whore?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Nei-ther do I, but when you find out, please in-form my a-gent! Ha! Ha!"
"Shall we get started?" I asked. "I've brought my lesson plan."
"Speak-ing of les-sons, did you hear the one a-bout the tea-cher who car-ried a lad-der to class be-cause he heard it was high school? Ha! Ha! I am go-ing to be a ve-ry, ve-ry great au-thor, don't you think? I can parse my sen-ten-ces. Do you want to hear me?"
"Please."
"There is par-snip, and par-sley, and parse of speech! Ha! Ha! I can al-so do a so-mer-sault. Do you want to see me?"
The little creature didn't give me time to answer before he stepped back, took aim, and went flying upside down through the air, trying desperately to balance his trajectory with his little upstretched hands. Unfortunately, he failed miserably and fell right on his head.
Oh," he said, managing to scramble to a sitting position, "will you look at me? I am all thumbs to-day. My aim was off. This is not my day, I guess. May-be I am ir-reg-u-lar. Is there a tid-di-ly turd in the house I can bor-row? And will you help me up please?"
I reached down and assisted the little fellow in getting back on his feet.
"Thank you," he said. "And what do you do here? Sweep the floors? Ha! Ha!"
I hardly appreciated such a question, least of all from my own pupil. However, I ignored it.
"Can we begin lesson one?" I asked.
"We can be-gin as soon as I say we can," Charlie replied. Needless to say, I didn't appreciate that either, and, in fact, said as much.
"I do not take or-ders from some-one who made the best sel-ler list for ten whole sec-onds!" this creature had the affront to say. I was one step away from knocking the little shit on his ass. Just then I remembered something; I knew right where I had seen Charlie's secretary before. She was none other than Miss Ardour and had been my secretary long before she was his.
"Maybe I barely made the best seller list, but at least I did have an affair with my secretary. Can you say as much? I thought not. Besides which, your Miss Ardour is the very secretary I had my affair with! What do you say to that, Mr Great Author? Chip got your tongue? Huh?"
"Miss Ardour is a trans-sex-u-al. So what does that make you, per-vert?"
That was it. I was ready to haul off and clobber that little turd - make that tiddley turd - when suddenly the door flew open and in ran - of all people - Sister Mary Margarine. She was dressed in black tatters, wore a pointed hat and carried a broomstick.
"There they are! There they are! she cried, pointing her broom straight at that little tin monstrosity.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. I could scarcely hide my shock.
"They're here," she replied. "I followed them everywhere. And finally they came here. Those demons. And they've gone right into that machine there. They've possessed it. It must be exorcised...or else...I shudder to think what the consequences might be!"
"Who let this witch in?" Charlie asked in an agitated voice. "Call the guard! She has no pass. Get her out of here!"
The guard, however, did not need to be summoned, for he was practically on the nun's heels already. He came bounding into the room.
"Lady!" he cried. "You can't come in here without a pass! You'll have to leave!"
"Alright," Sister Mary Margarine. "But I know where they are now. And I'll be back. With my coven. We're all former nuns, all professional exorcists. We'll get you yet, you demons. We'll get you."
She and I exchanged our farewells, then she was escorted out. I turned upon my unruly pupil.
"So," I said, "you're possessed, are you, you little fart?"
"Who is cal-ling who a lit-tle fart a-round here?"
"Who? Did you say who? Don't you mean whom?"
"When I want ad-vice on syn-tax from a third rate hack, I will ask for it.
This, dear reader, was the final straw. I made a fist, drew my arm back to gather momentum, and, as hard as I could, I swung. I missed getting him with the full brunt of my punch; but at least I hit him. The little beast went flying halfway across the room, landing smack on his rump. He began reaching up, as if expecting a hand.
"Will some-one help me up - I am a ve-ry great au-thor!" he pleaded. I just turned, nose in the air, and left.
Outside, as I attempted to hail a taxi, I was accosted by yet another peddler; and as I'm sure the patient reader has grown as weary of encountering these makeshift vendors in the pages before him as I had along the streets and the marble foyers of my city, I only recount this last one because of its extraordinary impression upon me. The incident can only serve as instruction to my readers, for it shows how low a man may sink if he wanders too far afield of his society's values, standards, norms and needs. I would not have left off hailing taxis even one minute had I not immediately recognized the man.
The peddler, dear reader, was Shemp Dingle, my former public relations man. A pitiful sight to behold, a once great man, a man as much in tune with the times - a man with his finger as firmly on the pulse of a nation - as any who ever lived, now reduced to walking the streets peddling junk. He approached attempting to sell some ridiculous love potion; worse still, he utterly failed to recognize me, his former and perhaps greatest client. I saw once and for all the grave difference between feigned madness and real madness; and I was saddened.
"I have here the ultimate essence," he came out of the shadows saying to me. I was standing there in front of 1984 waving at every passing vehicle, not that I expected any but a taxi to stop but simply that I did not wish to miss seeing a taxi in time to hail it, so I kept my arm in constant motion. The peddler - for, indeed, I can hardly refer to him by his given name, so changed was he from the Shemp Dingle whose identity had endowed that name with its wondrous meaning - this peddler was shabbily dressed in a tired gray suit, much too loose fitting and of some non-descript fabric such as hopsacking; he wore a cap, rather like a baseball hat, and had on brown sandals; his shirt was pale yellow: all in all, a hideously tasteless affair. His eyes too had lost their former sparkle; the light in them was much too soft, too gentle for a real person, even if it did shine almost like a beacon. His hands were somewhat gnarled, his fingernails much too long, as was the graying hair showing beneath his cap. His voice, soft too, managed to carry well enough.
"Shemp," I said, "how good to see you. Have you recovered the use of your mind, or are you still plagued by amnesia?"
"My amnesia is gone," he replied; "my mind also."
"I'm so sorry."
"Why? I don't need it," he replied.
So sad, I thought: a man who doesn't need his mind must surely lead the most barren of lives.
"Do you know me?" I asked.
"Yes, I know you," he replied in a mysterious tone. "I don't know who you are, though."
I could only shake my head. "And this essence of yours?" I inquired. "Is it devised from formulas you have run through your computer?"
"Oh no. Oh no. This formula comes from the human heart. It will not fit into any known computer language. I have done with machines anyway, now that I have discovered so much else. When I lost my memory, all my programs, all my categories, all my definitions went with it. I threw my computer out the door. Then I walked out the door. I haven't been back. I've discovered myself on every street corner, in every passing stranger, in every star, every new day; and every night a new me shuts his eyes in sleep. What I have here is the Essence of Love. Made from tears, my tears, and those of others, shed for humanity, into small vials and, over a lifetime there, distilled to a pure essence."
"Oh, then you have your own laboratory," I concluded.
"No, I've already told you: I have the stars, and the morning sun, and the evening clouds, and, wherever I find them, the trees. The vials are clear glass, through which filters the purest rays of this world, touching upon the fluid within, producing this distillate I carry through the streets. I offer it to whomever I encounter."
He withdrew a small vial from his coat pocket. "Here, if you wish, it is yours."
"Perhaps I will take it," I said, feeling sorry for my old mentor. How much?"
He smiled. "There is no cost," he replied. "If you take it, you must take it free of charge."
How valuable could it be if he has to give it away? I thought. "Perhaps not this time," I said, motioning the vial away.
"You find it of no value?" he said.
"None to speak of," I answered. I saw no reason to lie.
"As you wish," he said. He returned the vial to his pocket. He turned to continue his way, but he seemed sad that I had refused. I considered the matter. Oh hell, I concluded, what harm can it do? So I ran after him, calling his name.
"Shemp: wait a minute!" When I reached him I said I had changed my mind and would accept his gift.
"Forgive my rudeness," I apologized. "It's just that I've come from an encounter with a terrible monster. I wasn't thinking properly. Of course I'll take one - I'd be delighted."
He handed me the vial. "You will never regret this," he said. Smiling once more, he departed. I finally managed to hail a taxi, wondering what on earth I would do with a vial full of tears. It wasn't even a good conversation piece. Oh well, at least it didn't put me out anything.
"101 Industrial Pike, please," I told the driver. "And if you see a little tin man following us, lose him!"
I returned home just in time to see my smelter ablaze. From nearly a mile away the whole sky was lit up like a thousand cities at night. I wondered what it was. Then, as we approached, I wondered no more. For, amidst the howl of sirens, the glare of flashing lights, the confusion of spectators and firefighters there arose a great conflagration, flames shooting a hundred feet into the air.
I paid my fare. The fire gave me a good excuse not to tip the driver. I spied the great engineer who had so painstakingly built the mighty structure.
"What happened?" I inquired.
Zimrod Zardon turned to me. He held up his hand. In his palm was a tiny disc, which I recognized as a computer chip.
"The first product of the Dombycon Process," he said.
"And the last too, I suppose," I said. How did it happen?"
"We overheated the Domboid Bessemarity," he explained. "That's what it must have been. Just a fraction too much pressure on the pinkey valve - we call it that because it looks like any least finger. See. Thank goodness the fire department got here in time to keep it from engulfing your house."
"Was anyone hurt?" I asked.
"No. Just a few bruised calculations. But they can be repaired. I'm going on back to my office now, to try and see where I went wrong. You may as well go on in - in fact, the sooner the better: the water'll start to settle in your runoff ditch before long. That's another problem I've got to work on. Luckily it's not supposed to rain tonight."
"Thank goodness for small mercies," I said, then went inside.
My house was dark. The only light I could detect other than the glare from outside was a tiny flicker from somewhere at the far end of the living room. I switched on the lights but nothing happened. The fire had evidently somehow affected my electricity, or else the firefighters had severed a line. In either case I fully expected a return to normalcy once the great catastrophe had ended. But in this, also, I was mistaken for, unbeknownst to me, even as my smelter was burning to the ground, a far greater catastrophe was fast approaching, these darkened lights but the harbinger.
A voice called out from the dark, "Your lawyer called."
"Am I to return his call?" I asked.
"Yes, but you can't," came the thoroughly inappropriate reply.
"We shall see about that!" I retorted. I am hardly accustomed to receiving, let alone obeying, orders from my underlings. I made a note to assemble my workers once the electricity returned and reassert my authority. It may be that the recent events had given them to suppose themselves on an equal footing with their employer. I would have to set them straight. In the meantime, I made for the telephone, managing as best I could to avoid any obstacles in my path. I dialed. Nothing happened. Then I noticed there was no dial tone anyway. Evidently the fire had affected the telephone lines too, although I can't imagine how, since they came into my house from the side opposite to where my smelter had been.
"Did my attorney leave a message?" I inquired.
"Just to call him," was the reply.
"And when was this?" I asked.
"About half an hour before the telephone company called."
"What did they want?"
"They were notifying you they were discontinuing service, effective immediately," someone explained.
"Did they say why?"
"No, only that you could call their business office during regular business hours if you had any questions."
"Did they suggest how I might call, without a telephone?" I asked, the question of course purely rhetorical.
"Maybe you can reverse the charges," one of my workers suggested.
"Well, this is an outrage, that's all I can say," I said.
"Look at it this way: by not having a phone, you'll save three times the money."
"How so?"
"They've just gotten permission to triple their rates. So actually, you got out just in time."
I hardly considered that anything to be grateful for: even if I didn't need my telephone, I do not relish removing myself from the great currents of life as we know and love it in America. And, as an American, I can assure my good readers I am proud to do my small part to enrich Ma Bell - or any other public conglomerate. I did not, however, waste valuable time informing my workers of this. Why cast pearls before...well, I ought not to say "swine," so let me just keep it "workers." They are as incapable of understanding the underpinnings of our social order as they are of appreciating the great wellsprings of culture.
I turned in for the night, intending to go first thing the next morning to my attorney's. I awoke, after a truly fitful night in which my dreams somehow trapped me inside a utility pole. It seems I had been waiting for an important call when suddenly I slipped and fell into my telephone receiver. From there, I managed to work my way to the utility wire, thinking to tap into the police emergency line. Just when I reached the crucial junction, however, I lost my footing and tumbled down the center of the pole. Vague thoughts of Mount Rushmore and the Washington Monument arose. I began banging on the wood of the pole's interior, when suddenly there came a tapping outside. "I'm in here!" I called. The tapping grew louder until finally a hole was bored into the pole. I anticipated a rescue when, to my great horror, not an inch away, and coming fast at me, was the sharp beak of a woodpecker who was dressed like Uncle Sam. Then I woke up. And when I awoke, it was to a loud pounding on my bedroom door. I noticed also a gentle rain against my window.
"What is it?" I called out.
"A visitor," came the reply.
"I'll be there in a moment," I said; "tell him to wait."
I hurriedly got dressed and went downstairs. There, standing in the doorway, was a man in a uniform - an odd looking uniform at that. He was grinning. When he saw me approach, he inquired if I were Roland R. Domby. I said I was. He at once took out a tiny mouthpiece of the sort music teachers use to set the key for a song. He bowed. Then...of all things...and at such an hour...he burst into song...
"Oh you are broke broke broke/This is no joke joke joke/Your stock has fallen flat/Your book is not selling/You haven't paid your tax/Your lights and phone are gone/And you are all alone. Ooooooohhhhh..."
Here - if it can be believed - after delivering such abominable news, this creature with the Western Union name on his coat lapel and on his cap began tap dancing as he delivered the final lines of his poisoned message.
"Ooooohhhh, What are we going to do/Where are we going to go/How will we keep our job/What will tomorrow bring/Nobody knows/Nobody cares/Goodbye to you/See you around/Your attorney."
As if he had not insulted my intelligence already, he made a mockery of aesthetics. Instead of the boom-ba-di-boom-ba-di-boom-ba-di-boom-boom, which would have been perfectly proper, the ass hole attempted a boom-boom-ba-di-boom-boom-boom-ba-di-boom-ba-di-boom-boom-boom - one of the most difficult steps ever conceived. Well, he got what he deserved. He tumbled backward at the door, which he had left open all this time; and, in attempting to regain his balance, fell off the porch into my runoff ditch, which, as it so happened, had filled up about a quarter of the way overnight. Luckily we fished him out before he could drown, but he was covered from head to toe with a thick black mud composed of clay and cinders. In his anxiety he forgot to hold out his hand for a tip; he just left. I thought to myself: I hope I never sink so low that I forget to ask for my due.
"That was a nice telegram," I heard one of my workers say.
"Yeah," another agreed, "they sure do put on a show for you."
"I really loved the finale," said a third.
"You may have loved the show," I turned around to advise my characters, "but I don't think you'll like the reviews." Then I explained what I meant. And, for once, metaphor came that close to being truth.
"What the telegram means," I pointed out, "is, very simply: I'm broke. Which in turn means I can no longer afford to keep you. Even if you were to consent to stay on for room and board only, that would still net you nothing. Because I have nothing. I must consolidate all my holdings. I must leave off being the means of others' livelihood to concentrate on my own. For now, I must look out for myself. I can be no man's benefactor until such time as my resources are again fluid. Therefore, I am hereby dismissing all of you until such time as I may again require your services. Although, to speak frankly, now that your identities are lodged within a computer chip, it is of some doubt whether you will ever be needed. But, as you saw, my hands are tied. So, if you will - and with as little commotion as possible - please gather your belongings and be on your way. And, as always, God go with you. Oh, and do hurry before the ditch fills."
We said our goodbyes; they waded across the ditch and departed, glancing back occasionally. At last they were gone. I went to my study to relax, and to begin planning my next project. It's true I lost nearly everything. But I did retain that most important of all things: the expertise to get the system to work for you. It's something that you can't really learn; you have to be born with it. And, with it, the world, however many times lost, will always be in time regained.
It began raining harder. I could hear the raging torrent surrounding my house as the ditch filled and over ran. It began too to grow dark outside, so I lit a candle. And, really, candlelight is not all that bad. The flame flickered against the tiny vial Shemp Dingle had given me; it was sitting right in the middle of my desk. I made a mental note to move it once I actually began my work. And that would be soon: genius cannot for long sit idly while the rest of the world goes by. Even so damnable a world.