When I turned twenty-four I dropped out of college for the fourth time and moved to a scummy apartment in Dayton to write a novel. After about a month, I got lonely and invited the copious amounts of homeless people skulking in nearby alleys, vacant lots, abandoned houses, and junked cars to stay in the apartment, establishing something like a flophouse. Their presence helped the writing. I never could think when surrounded by silence or canned creativity like music or television. At first, I wrote on a laptop but someone stole that while I was sleeping so I went to a thrift store and found the biggest, bulkiest typewriter I could find. It would be too heavy for them to lug to the pawnshop and it had a generally useless, ancient look to it. Using a typewriter meant I had to keep a paper manuscript and my bums stole that as well. I don’t really know what they used it for. It was good for editing purposes. I had to write the same scenes over and over. Eventually, when I reached something resembling a finished manuscript, I got tired of them stealing it so I put the ream of paper in a plastic zipper bag and stashed it in the tank of the toilet. As the manuscript grew, the water in the toilet’s reservoir didn’t have anywhere to go and it would run out from the tank. This worked out nicely because no one ever wanted to get caught making a mess in the bathroom so they never opened up the tank to see what was making all the water come out. They just finished their business and got out as quickly as possible.
The actual physical act of my writing (they never read anything I wrote) inspired some of the bums and they would spend entire days writing on the walls. I encouraged this, figuring I wouldn’t get my deposit back anyway. After they stole the radio and the television this was the only way I had to entertain myself when not writing. I never really knew who wrote what but it was all pretty good. Gritty. Realistic. The complete opposite of the novel I was writing. I had trouble keeping the bums’ names straight. They all had nice, solid, Midwestern names like John and Hank and Buck and Mike. Or nicknames like Stinky, Pooptooth, and Blackbeard.
I stayed there for three years.
A guy named Squirt was there, standing right behind me, when I finished my novel. He was enthralled with how quickly I could type and a little sidetracked by the flaking rash on his stomach.
“That it?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess that’s it.”
“What now?”
“Guess I should try and sell it.”
I bought a guide to writers’ markets and quickly figured out every publisher was actually the same publisher and it was located in New York.
“Well guys,” I announced. “I’m going to New York.”
No one paid any attention to me. One man was hastily scrawling on the wall. Another man was in the corner shooting heroin. One was in the kitchen, cutting his wine with tap water. One was passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. He only wore one shoe. Squirt came out of the bathroom and proudly proclaimed he had fixed the toilet. I told them they were welcome to stay until they got thrown out and, if the landlord asked about me, to tell him I had died that morning. Again, I don’t think anyone really heard me.
With my manuscript under my arm and a suitcase in my hand, I went to the bus station and bought a ticket to New York.
Showing posts with label beards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beards. Show all posts
Chapter Two
It was a bright May morning when I reached the offices of Devilment Incorporated, on Fifth Avenue. I read the little placard by the elevators and took the elevator up to the fortieth floor. A horsefaced receptionist greeted me when I came off the elevator. Apparently, I looked fairly authorial in my corduroy blazer. A man lay on the floor behind her, moaning and holding his head.
“May I help you?” The receptionist’s nametag read: “Artemis X.”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe you can. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Dix.”
“Hm,” she said, putting a lacquered fingernail against her bottom lip and looking down at an appointment book filled with childlike, pornographic sketches. “Mr. Dix is, uh...” She giggled. I noticed she had her shoes off and the moaning man on the floor was tickling her heels. She coughed and kicked him in the head. He rolled back to his place on the floor. “What I meant to say was, uh, Mr. Dix is...”
“A GOAT!” the man on the floor shouted. “MR. DIX IS A FUCKING GOAT!” he shouted again before being overcome with a case of the giggles himself.
“No...” Ms. X tapped her fingernail on the counter. “No.” She shook her head. “Mr. Dix is most definitely not a goat.” She picked up the pornographic appointment book, closed it, turned around and swatted the floored man with it after each word. “Why. Don’t. You. Go. Back. To. Your. Own. Floor.” Swat. Swat. Swat.
The man snatched the book from her hands, stood up, and said, “Fine. If that’s the way you want to be. I will go back to my own floor. But don’t expect me to be there when you get home.” Then he stormed out of the office, stalking over to the elevators and angrily pushing both buttons frantically.
“Mr. Dix is...” Ms. X looked at the acoustic-tiled ceiling. “Well, he’s certainly not here today. That’s what he isn’t.”
“I see. Should I come back then? Perhaps I can just leave this with him?” I brandished my bulky manuscript. Although, frankly, I would have felt a little nervous leaving anything in that office.
“Hm,” she said. “Let’s have a look-see at that.”
I plopped it down on the counter.
She read the title aloud, mispronouncing a couple of the words and running her thick fingernail under them.
“David Glum?” she asked when she got to my name. “I’ve never heard of you.”
“Probably not. This is my first novel.”
She laughed and called out, “Lance!” I turned to see who she was shouting at. It was the man from the floor. The elevator doors still had not opened and he continued to push the buttons. They both glowed ferociously and his face glistened with sweat. “He says...” She spoke around her wild laughter. “He says this is his first novel.”
At this, Lance stopped pushing the elevator buttons, clasped his hands around his stomach and threw out the loudest most inauthentic laugh I’d ever heard. He fake-laughed so hard he fell to the floor. The elevator doors opened and he just rolled inside, not even bothering to stand up. The doors closed and I heard his laugh descend with the elevator. My face burned red. Once he was gone from earshot Ms. X ceased laughing and struggled to pull her horsey face into something resembling seriousness.
“If this,” she said, stroking a hand down my title page, “is your first novel, then you would want to see Mr. Half. Not Mr. Dix. Mr. Dix does not work with first time novelists.”
“Well... I assure you my appointment was with Mr. Dix but if Mr. Half is the only one here today then I guess he’ll have to do.” It would have to be okay since my appointment with Mr. Dix was imaginary.
“Just a moment.” She sat down at her chair and picked up the telephone. She enclosed her hand around the receiver so I could neither hear her nor see her lips moving. “If you would like to sit down over there Mr. Half will be with you in a few moments.”
“May I help you?” The receptionist’s nametag read: “Artemis X.”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe you can. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Dix.”
“Hm,” she said, putting a lacquered fingernail against her bottom lip and looking down at an appointment book filled with childlike, pornographic sketches. “Mr. Dix is, uh...” She giggled. I noticed she had her shoes off and the moaning man on the floor was tickling her heels. She coughed and kicked him in the head. He rolled back to his place on the floor. “What I meant to say was, uh, Mr. Dix is...”
“A GOAT!” the man on the floor shouted. “MR. DIX IS A FUCKING GOAT!” he shouted again before being overcome with a case of the giggles himself.
“No...” Ms. X tapped her fingernail on the counter. “No.” She shook her head. “Mr. Dix is most definitely not a goat.” She picked up the pornographic appointment book, closed it, turned around and swatted the floored man with it after each word. “Why. Don’t. You. Go. Back. To. Your. Own. Floor.” Swat. Swat. Swat.
The man snatched the book from her hands, stood up, and said, “Fine. If that’s the way you want to be. I will go back to my own floor. But don’t expect me to be there when you get home.” Then he stormed out of the office, stalking over to the elevators and angrily pushing both buttons frantically.
“Mr. Dix is...” Ms. X looked at the acoustic-tiled ceiling. “Well, he’s certainly not here today. That’s what he isn’t.”
“I see. Should I come back then? Perhaps I can just leave this with him?” I brandished my bulky manuscript. Although, frankly, I would have felt a little nervous leaving anything in that office.
“Hm,” she said. “Let’s have a look-see at that.”
I plopped it down on the counter.
She read the title aloud, mispronouncing a couple of the words and running her thick fingernail under them.
“David Glum?” she asked when she got to my name. “I’ve never heard of you.”
“Probably not. This is my first novel.”
She laughed and called out, “Lance!” I turned to see who she was shouting at. It was the man from the floor. The elevator doors still had not opened and he continued to push the buttons. They both glowed ferociously and his face glistened with sweat. “He says...” She spoke around her wild laughter. “He says this is his first novel.”
At this, Lance stopped pushing the elevator buttons, clasped his hands around his stomach and threw out the loudest most inauthentic laugh I’d ever heard. He fake-laughed so hard he fell to the floor. The elevator doors opened and he just rolled inside, not even bothering to stand up. The doors closed and I heard his laugh descend with the elevator. My face burned red. Once he was gone from earshot Ms. X ceased laughing and struggled to pull her horsey face into something resembling seriousness.
“If this,” she said, stroking a hand down my title page, “is your first novel, then you would want to see Mr. Half. Not Mr. Dix. Mr. Dix does not work with first time novelists.”
“Well... I assure you my appointment was with Mr. Dix but if Mr. Half is the only one here today then I guess he’ll have to do.” It would have to be okay since my appointment with Mr. Dix was imaginary.
“Just a moment.” She sat down at her chair and picked up the telephone. She enclosed her hand around the receiver so I could neither hear her nor see her lips moving. “If you would like to sit down over there Mr. Half will be with you in a few moments.”
Chapter Three
I crossed the office but before I could even make it to the uncomfortable and stained couch someone shouted, “Glum!” from behind me.
I turned around and a very small man approached me. “If you’ll just follow me,” he said.
I followed him down a long corridor and turned left into his office. The office was very small. Filing cabinets lined the walls. Paper spilled from all of them. Paper was everywhere. Piled on his desk and on top of the filing cabinets. He sat down behind his desk, adjusted his small glasses and said, “If you could give me just a half an hour with your, uh, manuscript there, I’ll be able to let you know.”
I plunked the manuscript down on his desk. He let out an exasperated sigh and reiterated, “One half hour, please.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. It was the size of a child’s and very smooth. I walked back down the long corridor and out to the reception area. Ms. X was crawling on the floor, sniffing the carpet. I pressed the button for the lobby and the elevator opened right up. Lance stood in the back right corner of the elevator. He stood very straight and very serious-looking. The elevator door closed and he moved to stand right next to me.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he hissed.
“About what?”
“Artemis.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about there.”
“She’s mine,” he hissed again, giving me a little push.
“Fine. Fine. I’m here to sell a book.”
“Oh, a big time author, huh?”
“Well, not really.”
“Just remember—stay away from Artemis.”
“Okay. Okay. Just...” The elevator doors opened and I immediately heaved myself for them. Lance tripped me and I went sprawling into the lobby. Staying in the elevator, he pointed at me and laughed. I picked myself up and headed for the front doors, figuring by the time I stepped outside, went back in and back up to the fortieth floor, a half hour would have elapsed. Standing on the steps in front of the building I saw a man with the head of an eagle walk across Fifth Avenue and into Central Park.
I also saw my imposter for the first time. He came through the front doors and stood there next to me. Curiously, I stared at him. He wore a wig resembling my hair. He wore the same glasses and blazer as I did. He carried a fat ream of paper under his arm. He surveyed the street in front of him and then, turning, saw me staring at him. He grabbed the ream of paper up to his chest and took off running into the park. I contemplated running after him, thinking maybe he had stolen my manuscript, but I wanted to be able to meet Mr. Half in one half hour.
I turned around and a very small man approached me. “If you’ll just follow me,” he said.
I followed him down a long corridor and turned left into his office. The office was very small. Filing cabinets lined the walls. Paper spilled from all of them. Paper was everywhere. Piled on his desk and on top of the filing cabinets. He sat down behind his desk, adjusted his small glasses and said, “If you could give me just a half an hour with your, uh, manuscript there, I’ll be able to let you know.”
I plunked the manuscript down on his desk. He let out an exasperated sigh and reiterated, “One half hour, please.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. It was the size of a child’s and very smooth. I walked back down the long corridor and out to the reception area. Ms. X was crawling on the floor, sniffing the carpet. I pressed the button for the lobby and the elevator opened right up. Lance stood in the back right corner of the elevator. He stood very straight and very serious-looking. The elevator door closed and he moved to stand right next to me.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he hissed.
“About what?”
“Artemis.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about there.”
“She’s mine,” he hissed again, giving me a little push.
“Fine. Fine. I’m here to sell a book.”
“Oh, a big time author, huh?”
“Well, not really.”
“Just remember—stay away from Artemis.”
“Okay. Okay. Just...” The elevator doors opened and I immediately heaved myself for them. Lance tripped me and I went sprawling into the lobby. Staying in the elevator, he pointed at me and laughed. I picked myself up and headed for the front doors, figuring by the time I stepped outside, went back in and back up to the fortieth floor, a half hour would have elapsed. Standing on the steps in front of the building I saw a man with the head of an eagle walk across Fifth Avenue and into Central Park.
I also saw my imposter for the first time. He came through the front doors and stood there next to me. Curiously, I stared at him. He wore a wig resembling my hair. He wore the same glasses and blazer as I did. He carried a fat ream of paper under his arm. He surveyed the street in front of him and then, turning, saw me staring at him. He grabbed the ream of paper up to his chest and took off running into the park. I contemplated running after him, thinking maybe he had stolen my manuscript, but I wanted to be able to meet Mr. Half in one half hour.
Chapter Four
I took a deep breath and watched all the people walking up and down Fifth Avenue. Fashionable, well-dressed people. Slovenly dressed people. Moderately dressed people. Some of them entered Central Park. Some of them were on their way to other destinations. Who were these people? What were they doing? Where were they going? And did I care?
I most absolutely did not.
I turned and went back into the building, crossing the drab lobby to the elevators. Gratefully, I noticed Lance was no longer in the elevator. He must have found whatever floor he was looking for. Now there were at least fifty people in the elevator, an impossible amount, all of them dressed like doctors or nurses. I sucked in my breath, trying to make myself smaller, and squeezed in amidst them. All the buttons were lit up and the elevator stopped at each floor. No one waited to get on and no one got off. When it reached the fortieth floor, I exhaled, the surge of people behind me nearly shoving me out into the reception area. Cautiously, I strolled to the desk, waiting for a potential ambush from Lance.
The reception area was completely destroyed. The couch I had been previously directed toward was maimed and gouged, stuffing flowing out and onto the carpet, which had been torn up in places. The coffee table was overturned, the various trade magazines covering it torn and scattered across the floor. Ms. X’s computer sat in a melted lump on the counter.
There was no sign of Ms. X so I let myself back to Mr. Half’s office, again wandering along the interminably long corridor. None of the office doors had any numbers or nameplates on them so I wasn’t sure it was actually Mr. Half’s door I knocked on when I finally reached it. I waited for him to call me in but didn’t hear anything. I knocked again. Again, nothing.
“Mr. Half?” I breathed into the door.
Still nothing.
I tried the knob and entered the office, only to find Mr. Half sound asleep, his head resting, cheek down, on my manuscript, a trail of drool darkening the page. I nudged his shoulder. “Mr. Half?”
He plucked his head up and adjusted his glasses over his bleary eyes.
“Oh... what... I’m terribly sorry,” he said. He removed his small wire-framed glasses and wiped sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands before putting his glasses back on. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Glum.”
“Sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, it’s no bother.”
“Did you get to read any of it before you...”
“Fell asleep?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, yes, I read a few pages.”
Then he entwined his fingers and rested his chin on them, staring at me.
“And?”
“Yes?”
“What did you think of it?”
“Not much, really. I mean, I fell asleep. How good could it have been?”
“I see.”
“About how long did you spend on this?”
“Three years.”
“Pity.” He separated his hands and shuffled my damp manuscript around on his desk.
“So, is that it?” I asked. “Should I go? Or are you going to show it to Mr. Dix?”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Half, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my manuscript and get going. I’m very sorry to waste your time.”
“It’s no bother. Really, I’ve got nothing but time. My wife has uh... left me, so I mostly just stay here. Actually, she hasn’t so much left me as... invited a lover into our home. The children love him. He’s a contortionist, you see. They call him Mr. Flexy... A much more interesting character than their father. A gimmick, really, if you ask me but, well... you didn’t, did you?”
“Didn’t what?”
“Ask me.”
“No. I guess I didn’t.”
“Anyway, I really hope you’re not discouraged. This has nothing to do with you or your writing...”
“You’re rejecting it but telling me, at the same time, it is not a reflection of the writing?”
“Exactly.”
“But if it was good you would have accepted it, right?”
Mr. Half chuckled and looked nervously at the teeming manuscripts surrounding him.
“I mean, it’s okay if it sucks. You can tell me. You’re an editor. You must have read countless manuscripts—good and bad. I would think, being a man of education and letters, you would be able to encapsulate your feelings toward my writing in a single sentence or two.”
“You’re obviously a very confused young man, Mr. Glum.”
“You’re probably right, Mr. Half.”
“Let me tell you how things work before you go back out and tell everyone what elitist snobs we all are.”
“I never said you were an elitist snob. If publishers were snobs they wouldn’t publish half the shit they do.”
“Okay... Okay, no need to get insulting.” Mr. Half sat back in his chair and spread his arms to draw my attention to his office and those insurmountably depressing mounds of novels, short story collections, memoirs, and queries. “I am only an assistant editor. Do you know what that means?”
“You’re like a filter for the head honcho, right? A...”
He held his hand up to silence me.
“Not even just a filter. Being an assistant editor implies that I am still some kind of editor. That’s where I don’t want to lead you astray. I am a half-editor. I was born to be a half-editor. Because I am half a man. I am half of Mr. Dix. I am half as tall as he is. I weigh half as much as he does. While I am not completely bald, my hair is very thin and, I can assure you, if a count were taken, you would find me to have half as many hairs as him. My office is half the size of his. I have half as many filing cabinets as he has. But this is where things differ. Whereas I am half the person he is I do a thousand times the work. All I do is read things. Every day. All day. Mostly. So he has time to live his full life and be the full man he strives to be. Occasionally I find something I like enough to pass along to him but if he doesn’t like it, if it doesn’t in some way enrich his life...”
“Yes?”
“The consequences are dire. Mr. Dix is a ruthless man. And he is not afraid to use his fists.”
“I’m very sorry about your situation, sir, but if you’ll just return my manuscript I’ll be on my way.”
“I’ll give it back to you but I should have you know that I might as well throw it away.”
“Why? I worked hard on that.”
“But what are you going to do with it now? Publish it yourself? I can assure you you will be a mockery if you choose to do that. Mr. Dix may not even look at any more of your manuscripts should you choose to do that. And, I’m sorry, but there just isn’t any other place for you to take it. We own everything.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Fine,” he said, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe some drool from the title page before hastily scooting the bulky manuscript across the desk. “Take it. Go read it to the homeless or something. See if I care. And may I make one suggestion?”
“Why not?” I said, collecting the manuscript.
“You should think about giving it a shorter title. To be honest with you, I fell asleep before reading the whole title.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Glum.”
“You too, Mr. Half.”
I turned to leave the office and, reaching the threshold, heard Mr. Half reading, at top volume, from another manuscript.
Entering the reception area, I noticed a goat had taken Ms. X’s place. The goat sat in her chair and gnawed on the destroyed computer, sliming it with some kind of drooly goat funk. He brayed at me as I once again boarded the elevator. The doctors and nurses had all gone but now there was a patient, stretched out on a gurney, a sheet covering the body and head completely. He may have been dead. I started feeling kind of bummed out. When I got out of the elevator I decided to go sit in the park for a while. Then I guessed I would go back home. Not to the apartment but to my parents’ farmhouse in Grainville. I had wanted to be a novelist since I was in the third grade and had now failed. I was bummed because of the failure but the prospect of finding something else to do seemed exhausting and staggering. And the thought of spending years learning some other skill or craft only to fail once again was thoroughly depressing. It made me want to do nothing at all. Just sit in the park and watch people who undoubtedly had better lives than mine.
I bought a sandwich from a greasy man with a growth on his face and a thick accent.
I found an empty bench and sat down to eat my sandwich, surrounded by acres of fake wilderness. I ate my sandwich and thought about how my life no longer had any purpose. For the past three years, my purpose had been the novel and now... The positive point of view would have been to go back home and start another novel but, after being told, in so many words, that it didn’t matter how good the book was, I couldn’t embrace that point of view. Maybe I would try and build something. Something practical. A man writes a novel and, if no one reads it or it doesn’t make any money, he may as well not have done anything at all. It is just a small ream of paper that sits there and takes up a small amount of space. The only place the work really exists is in the author’s head. Because, undoubtedly, changes did occur in the brain while the novel was being written. Things imagined that had never been there before. People created who never existed before. Walls torn down. Entire cities built. But, in the real world, it was so much shit on paper. But if a man builds a house... well, then he has something to show for it. He can say he built something. “See, there’s that house I built.” And people can look at it and say, “Yeah, that’s a house.” And they might even ask, “Did you build that?” And the man can proudly say, “Yes, I did build that.” And even if no one sees it, even if it is in the darkest heart of the remotest jungle, it will still be a house. It will still be utilitarian. A man, hell, a whole family, can live in it. It would provide shelter from the rain and the wind and the cold and the sun. It would be SOMETHING whereas what I had now was a big pile of NOTHING.
I didn’t want the rest of my sandwich and threw it out onto the walk, hoping someone would step in it and soil their shoes. Then, totally unwittingly, I discovered my new purpose.
To my right, a gaggle of people strolled down the walk, going toward Fifth Avenue. At the center of the group was a tall man with an enormous white beard. He held a pipe in his right hand which he used to gesture with. There were at least three people on either side of him, nodding at him, agreeing with him, interested in what he was saying. Suddenly, I found myself waiting anxiously for them to approach the discarded sandwich. Surely one of them would have to step in it. Which one would it be? I hoped it would be the old man. I wanted to see this stately center of attention debased by having to look at the mess soiling his sober brown loafer.
Unfortunately, none of them stepped in it. As he passed, I tried to catch what the old bearded man said but it sounded like nonsense. Gibberish. Not even words. Just something that sounded like knocking on wood and static. And they all just glided right over the sandwich. It sat there on the walk, looking lonely and pathetic. Then the eagle-headed creature I had seen earlier came toward it, picked it up, and popped it into its beak.
It was at that point I decided to go back to Ohio and grow a beard. Whatever was meant to happen would have to come after that. The eagle-thing squawked at me and I thought of it as the creature’s unique way of saying, “Good idea.”
I most absolutely did not.
I turned and went back into the building, crossing the drab lobby to the elevators. Gratefully, I noticed Lance was no longer in the elevator. He must have found whatever floor he was looking for. Now there were at least fifty people in the elevator, an impossible amount, all of them dressed like doctors or nurses. I sucked in my breath, trying to make myself smaller, and squeezed in amidst them. All the buttons were lit up and the elevator stopped at each floor. No one waited to get on and no one got off. When it reached the fortieth floor, I exhaled, the surge of people behind me nearly shoving me out into the reception area. Cautiously, I strolled to the desk, waiting for a potential ambush from Lance.
The reception area was completely destroyed. The couch I had been previously directed toward was maimed and gouged, stuffing flowing out and onto the carpet, which had been torn up in places. The coffee table was overturned, the various trade magazines covering it torn and scattered across the floor. Ms. X’s computer sat in a melted lump on the counter.
There was no sign of Ms. X so I let myself back to Mr. Half’s office, again wandering along the interminably long corridor. None of the office doors had any numbers or nameplates on them so I wasn’t sure it was actually Mr. Half’s door I knocked on when I finally reached it. I waited for him to call me in but didn’t hear anything. I knocked again. Again, nothing.
“Mr. Half?” I breathed into the door.
Still nothing.
I tried the knob and entered the office, only to find Mr. Half sound asleep, his head resting, cheek down, on my manuscript, a trail of drool darkening the page. I nudged his shoulder. “Mr. Half?”
He plucked his head up and adjusted his glasses over his bleary eyes.
“Oh... what... I’m terribly sorry,” he said. He removed his small wire-framed glasses and wiped sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands before putting his glasses back on. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Glum.”
“Sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, it’s no bother.”
“Did you get to read any of it before you...”
“Fell asleep?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, yes, I read a few pages.”
Then he entwined his fingers and rested his chin on them, staring at me.
“And?”
“Yes?”
“What did you think of it?”
“Not much, really. I mean, I fell asleep. How good could it have been?”
“I see.”
“About how long did you spend on this?”
“Three years.”
“Pity.” He separated his hands and shuffled my damp manuscript around on his desk.
“So, is that it?” I asked. “Should I go? Or are you going to show it to Mr. Dix?”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Half, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my manuscript and get going. I’m very sorry to waste your time.”
“It’s no bother. Really, I’ve got nothing but time. My wife has uh... left me, so I mostly just stay here. Actually, she hasn’t so much left me as... invited a lover into our home. The children love him. He’s a contortionist, you see. They call him Mr. Flexy... A much more interesting character than their father. A gimmick, really, if you ask me but, well... you didn’t, did you?”
“Didn’t what?”
“Ask me.”
“No. I guess I didn’t.”
“Anyway, I really hope you’re not discouraged. This has nothing to do with you or your writing...”
“You’re rejecting it but telling me, at the same time, it is not a reflection of the writing?”
“Exactly.”
“But if it was good you would have accepted it, right?”
Mr. Half chuckled and looked nervously at the teeming manuscripts surrounding him.
“I mean, it’s okay if it sucks. You can tell me. You’re an editor. You must have read countless manuscripts—good and bad. I would think, being a man of education and letters, you would be able to encapsulate your feelings toward my writing in a single sentence or two.”
“You’re obviously a very confused young man, Mr. Glum.”
“You’re probably right, Mr. Half.”
“Let me tell you how things work before you go back out and tell everyone what elitist snobs we all are.”
“I never said you were an elitist snob. If publishers were snobs they wouldn’t publish half the shit they do.”
“Okay... Okay, no need to get insulting.” Mr. Half sat back in his chair and spread his arms to draw my attention to his office and those insurmountably depressing mounds of novels, short story collections, memoirs, and queries. “I am only an assistant editor. Do you know what that means?”
“You’re like a filter for the head honcho, right? A...”
He held his hand up to silence me.
“Not even just a filter. Being an assistant editor implies that I am still some kind of editor. That’s where I don’t want to lead you astray. I am a half-editor. I was born to be a half-editor. Because I am half a man. I am half of Mr. Dix. I am half as tall as he is. I weigh half as much as he does. While I am not completely bald, my hair is very thin and, I can assure you, if a count were taken, you would find me to have half as many hairs as him. My office is half the size of his. I have half as many filing cabinets as he has. But this is where things differ. Whereas I am half the person he is I do a thousand times the work. All I do is read things. Every day. All day. Mostly. So he has time to live his full life and be the full man he strives to be. Occasionally I find something I like enough to pass along to him but if he doesn’t like it, if it doesn’t in some way enrich his life...”
“Yes?”
“The consequences are dire. Mr. Dix is a ruthless man. And he is not afraid to use his fists.”
“I’m very sorry about your situation, sir, but if you’ll just return my manuscript I’ll be on my way.”
“I’ll give it back to you but I should have you know that I might as well throw it away.”
“Why? I worked hard on that.”
“But what are you going to do with it now? Publish it yourself? I can assure you you will be a mockery if you choose to do that. Mr. Dix may not even look at any more of your manuscripts should you choose to do that. And, I’m sorry, but there just isn’t any other place for you to take it. We own everything.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Fine,” he said, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe some drool from the title page before hastily scooting the bulky manuscript across the desk. “Take it. Go read it to the homeless or something. See if I care. And may I make one suggestion?”
“Why not?” I said, collecting the manuscript.
“You should think about giving it a shorter title. To be honest with you, I fell asleep before reading the whole title.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Glum.”
“You too, Mr. Half.”
I turned to leave the office and, reaching the threshold, heard Mr. Half reading, at top volume, from another manuscript.
Entering the reception area, I noticed a goat had taken Ms. X’s place. The goat sat in her chair and gnawed on the destroyed computer, sliming it with some kind of drooly goat funk. He brayed at me as I once again boarded the elevator. The doctors and nurses had all gone but now there was a patient, stretched out on a gurney, a sheet covering the body and head completely. He may have been dead. I started feeling kind of bummed out. When I got out of the elevator I decided to go sit in the park for a while. Then I guessed I would go back home. Not to the apartment but to my parents’ farmhouse in Grainville. I had wanted to be a novelist since I was in the third grade and had now failed. I was bummed because of the failure but the prospect of finding something else to do seemed exhausting and staggering. And the thought of spending years learning some other skill or craft only to fail once again was thoroughly depressing. It made me want to do nothing at all. Just sit in the park and watch people who undoubtedly had better lives than mine.
I bought a sandwich from a greasy man with a growth on his face and a thick accent.
I found an empty bench and sat down to eat my sandwich, surrounded by acres of fake wilderness. I ate my sandwich and thought about how my life no longer had any purpose. For the past three years, my purpose had been the novel and now... The positive point of view would have been to go back home and start another novel but, after being told, in so many words, that it didn’t matter how good the book was, I couldn’t embrace that point of view. Maybe I would try and build something. Something practical. A man writes a novel and, if no one reads it or it doesn’t make any money, he may as well not have done anything at all. It is just a small ream of paper that sits there and takes up a small amount of space. The only place the work really exists is in the author’s head. Because, undoubtedly, changes did occur in the brain while the novel was being written. Things imagined that had never been there before. People created who never existed before. Walls torn down. Entire cities built. But, in the real world, it was so much shit on paper. But if a man builds a house... well, then he has something to show for it. He can say he built something. “See, there’s that house I built.” And people can look at it and say, “Yeah, that’s a house.” And they might even ask, “Did you build that?” And the man can proudly say, “Yes, I did build that.” And even if no one sees it, even if it is in the darkest heart of the remotest jungle, it will still be a house. It will still be utilitarian. A man, hell, a whole family, can live in it. It would provide shelter from the rain and the wind and the cold and the sun. It would be SOMETHING whereas what I had now was a big pile of NOTHING.
I didn’t want the rest of my sandwich and threw it out onto the walk, hoping someone would step in it and soil their shoes. Then, totally unwittingly, I discovered my new purpose.
To my right, a gaggle of people strolled down the walk, going toward Fifth Avenue. At the center of the group was a tall man with an enormous white beard. He held a pipe in his right hand which he used to gesture with. There were at least three people on either side of him, nodding at him, agreeing with him, interested in what he was saying. Suddenly, I found myself waiting anxiously for them to approach the discarded sandwich. Surely one of them would have to step in it. Which one would it be? I hoped it would be the old man. I wanted to see this stately center of attention debased by having to look at the mess soiling his sober brown loafer.
Unfortunately, none of them stepped in it. As he passed, I tried to catch what the old bearded man said but it sounded like nonsense. Gibberish. Not even words. Just something that sounded like knocking on wood and static. And they all just glided right over the sandwich. It sat there on the walk, looking lonely and pathetic. Then the eagle-headed creature I had seen earlier came toward it, picked it up, and popped it into its beak.
It was at that point I decided to go back to Ohio and grow a beard. Whatever was meant to happen would have to come after that. The eagle-thing squawked at me and I thought of it as the creature’s unique way of saying, “Good idea.”
Chapter Five
I stood up and scratched my chin, imagining the luscious black beard that would soon adorn it, placed my manuscript on the park bench, and walked back toward Fifth Avenue. Reaching the sidewalk, I turned to give my book one final look. This was, after all, the only copy. Three years of work. But if I didn’t leave it there for someone to find, even if they didn’t read it, even if it just ended up in the garbage, I knew I couldn’t feel like I had created anything. This way, at least it would fill a landfill somewhere, which was a little more politically involving than a trunk or my desk drawer.
My imposter stood in front of the manuscript, holding his own bulky manuscript in his arm. He placed it on the bench beside mine. Even from this distance, I could tell they were almost exactly the same size. He picked mine up and tucked it under his arm. He bent his knees a little bit, as if testing its heft. Maybe he thought they were different bonds or something. I started back toward the bench, toward my imposter. He spotted me, clutched the manuscript tightly to his chest, and ran off into the park. I continued toward the bench.
Sitting down once again I lifted his manuscript onto my lap. It was filled with blank pages. Just a ream of paper. A true imposter would at least have tried to write something. But maybe not. Maybe a true imposter was only a shell of the real thing. Something filled with nothingness. Empty. Of course now that manuscript was as much his as it was mine. The only difference was in my head. I knew I wrote it but he could easily say he wrote it. Of course, since he was my imposter, he would also say he was me. Maybe in the end it was all just a wash out.
I couldn’t sit there contemplating all day. I had a beard to grow. And quick.
I passed the greasy man selling sandwiches again and he said, “Hey! Hey, buddy!”
I approached his smoking, heavily scented kiosk.
“You wanna try a hallucinogenic sandwich?”
“I just had a sandwich.”
“You don’t have to be hungry to like this one.”
“Sure. I guess. Is it legal?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Sure. All natural ingredients. On the house this time.” He motioned to his cart. “You fix it up the way you want it.”
“Thanks,” I said. I wasn’t hungry at all but the temptation was too great. While I had never been truly impoverished, I had been hungry enough to know one should never pass up free food.
The only thing on the cart I recognized was the bread. The rest of the little stainless steel bins were filled with exotic-looking vegetables. While I went about making my sandwich the vendor crouched down and started playing with my shoes.
“Hey!” I said, startled.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m also a cobbler. These shoes is all worn out.”
“Whatever. Is that free too?”
“Sure. I just can’t stand to see someone in ratty shoes.”
I assembled a moderately sized sandwich, figuring I would probably be hungry on the bus.
The vendor/cobbler stood up. “Got you all fixed up there.”
I looked down at my once tattered canvas shoes and saw they were now brand new-looking, with no signs of patches, glue or off-colored thread.
“Wow. You do good work.”
“Been doin it for years,” he said with a nod.
“Please. Let me pay you.”
“No need. I have everything I need right here.” He motioned to the cart.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay then. Have a great day.”
“You too.”
I turned and left for the bus station. I didn’t have a lot of money left and I had heard about a cheap and highly disreputable bus company near Battery Park.
My imposter stood in front of the manuscript, holding his own bulky manuscript in his arm. He placed it on the bench beside mine. Even from this distance, I could tell they were almost exactly the same size. He picked mine up and tucked it under his arm. He bent his knees a little bit, as if testing its heft. Maybe he thought they were different bonds or something. I started back toward the bench, toward my imposter. He spotted me, clutched the manuscript tightly to his chest, and ran off into the park. I continued toward the bench.
Sitting down once again I lifted his manuscript onto my lap. It was filled with blank pages. Just a ream of paper. A true imposter would at least have tried to write something. But maybe not. Maybe a true imposter was only a shell of the real thing. Something filled with nothingness. Empty. Of course now that manuscript was as much his as it was mine. The only difference was in my head. I knew I wrote it but he could easily say he wrote it. Of course, since he was my imposter, he would also say he was me. Maybe in the end it was all just a wash out.
I couldn’t sit there contemplating all day. I had a beard to grow. And quick.
I passed the greasy man selling sandwiches again and he said, “Hey! Hey, buddy!”
I approached his smoking, heavily scented kiosk.
“You wanna try a hallucinogenic sandwich?”
“I just had a sandwich.”
“You don’t have to be hungry to like this one.”
“Sure. I guess. Is it legal?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Sure. All natural ingredients. On the house this time.” He motioned to his cart. “You fix it up the way you want it.”
“Thanks,” I said. I wasn’t hungry at all but the temptation was too great. While I had never been truly impoverished, I had been hungry enough to know one should never pass up free food.
The only thing on the cart I recognized was the bread. The rest of the little stainless steel bins were filled with exotic-looking vegetables. While I went about making my sandwich the vendor crouched down and started playing with my shoes.
“Hey!” I said, startled.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m also a cobbler. These shoes is all worn out.”
“Whatever. Is that free too?”
“Sure. I just can’t stand to see someone in ratty shoes.”
I assembled a moderately sized sandwich, figuring I would probably be hungry on the bus.
The vendor/cobbler stood up. “Got you all fixed up there.”
I looked down at my once tattered canvas shoes and saw they were now brand new-looking, with no signs of patches, glue or off-colored thread.
“Wow. You do good work.”
“Been doin it for years,” he said with a nod.
“Please. Let me pay you.”
“No need. I have everything I need right here.” He motioned to the cart.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay then. Have a great day.”
“You too.”
I turned and left for the bus station. I didn’t have a lot of money left and I had heard about a cheap and highly disreputable bus company near Battery Park.
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