Business Secrets from the Stars

by David Dvorkin

  “You see, Doctor,” he becomes condescending, “there’s a wider reality than you are aware of, a greater universe. You can only measure a small part of the universe, only sense a small section of the whole, because you limit yourself to what your instruments can see. But what of the human mind, eh? What of the greatest instrument of all, the human heart, eh? Why don’t you open yourself to the wonders around you instead of limiting yourself to the small, drab, colorless part of reality inside your laboratory?”

  Once again, Malcolm has the experience of listening to himself speak, as though another intelligence is in charge of his mouth — and a rather silly intelligence, at that. Remember the bucks, he thinks desperately, fighting his urge to contradict his own words.

  Atlantica jumps to Malcolm’s defense. The audience separates into warring factions — verbal war, so far, but glares are being exchanged and hands are being clenched into fists. Johnny calls for another commercial and spends the interval calming everyone down.

  “We’re back!” cries Johnny at the end of the break.

  He’s looking at a sheet of paper.

  “Mr. Erskine, before we continue with our other guests, I’d like you to respond to something I have here. We tried to get a representative of the Church of Scientology on today’s show, but that didn’t work out. However, the church did send along the following statement, which I have here, and which I’d like you to respond to. I quote. ‘The entity Malcolm Erskine claims to be channeling, Lukas of Aldebaran, is quite real. In ancient times, he was the enemy of mankind’s ancestral stellar god-kings. Therefore, we wish to warn the public that this entity is a very dangerous one. Anyone paying attention to what the entity says through the mouth of his human stooge, Malcolm Erskine, is risking the onset of a whole raft of very damaging engrams. Warning! If you have spent any time and money reading Malcolm Erskine’s book or attending one of his seminars, you are surely already encrusted with engrams, which seriously retard your progress toward cleardom. Go to your nearest Church of Scientology office immediately for help. We hope that Malcolm Erskine will stop listening to that dangerous voice from the past and will himself come to one of our offices for a complete engrammatic analysis before it’s too late.’”

  “Hmm,” Malcolm says. “Well, I’m afraid it’s already too late. I’m irreparably saturated with my own form of clearness, which gives me the enviable ability to see through fake religions, and which thus also makes it impossible for me to take Scientology seriously. Perhaps your famous wife might want to interview me, Johnny. I could explain my views in more detail that way.”

  Malcolm pauses expectantly, but Johnny merely stares — or glares — at him steadily.

  Malcolm sighs in defeat and concentrates on the matter at hand. “I must say, though, Johnny, that I can only hope that when I’m dead, I’ll be able to write science-fiction novels that are even half as commercially successful as those written on the other side of the veil by the most famous Scientologist of them all.”

  Johnny looks at the reddening faces of engram-free clears in his audience and decides to move along to another adversary.

  “Reverend Jimmy Earl, I understand you also think Mr. Erskine actually is channeling a real being, but, like the Church of Scientology, you don’t think this being should be trusted?”

  Jimmy Earl glares at Johnny because the host has made most of his speech for him. “That’s right,” he says, opening his mouth the minimum necessary to let the two words out. But then he turns his glare on Malcolm and seems to gain motivation from the way the world’s greatest channeler shrinks away from him.

  “Although I’d hate to have anyone think I agree with the Scientologists’ kooky theology,” Jimmy Earl continues, “they’re at least partly on the right track. I have no doubt that Erskine is really tuning in on some cosmic voice. But you see, Johnny, the problem is that this voice he hears is actually the voice of the Devil, or at least one of his subordinate demons. In short, a demonic spirit.”

  Jimmy Earl tries to affect heartiness, warmth, and fatherly concern. It’s the sort of pose he does well on the television screen, and those watching the show on television are fooled by it. But Malcolm, sitting so close to him, can feel the man’s underlying malevolence as if it were a physical force. Malcolm would have pooh-poohed the idea of a demonic spirit before this encounter. Now he thinks he’s sitting next to one.

  “You know,” Jimmy Earl continues, really getting into the mood, voice getting deeper and louder, face reddening, heart rate increasing, testosterone production rising, “I just hope our friend Malcolm here can pull back in time, before the evil fiend sinks his hooks fully into his soul and drags him kicking and screaming down into the bottomless pit, into the eternal fire that burns and sears and melts forever, without cease or respite.” He turns the full force of his hate-filled stare on Malcolm.

  Shades of Jack on that call-in radio program in Piketon! Malcolm tries to drive that thought away. It’s an unsettling coincidence, this similarity between what a weird, anonymous voice said on the telephone in Piketon and what this frightening preacher and political lobbyist is saying now on television. But of course it is only a coincidence. Surely.

  “Hey, man,” Brother Harry says with a lazy, Southern-Californian chuckle, “chill out, dude. Look, it’s like getting two radio stations mixed up, you know? Two signals, I mean. Overlapping. Sometimes it’s hard to sort that out, two crossed signals like that, but you can do it if you try.

  “Now, Malcolm, he’s just encountering a lot of static and everything, and so he’s a bit confused. He’s picking up some good stuff, see, real information, like maybe from some guys in flying saucers way out there or something, but he’s got a lot of noise in there, too, so he’s not hearing the words right. The Word, I mean, the Logos. But that doesn’t mean he’s hearing a message from the Nether Regions, right?” He laughs loudly. “I mean, hey, if that was the case, if everyone who’s a bit confused about his inner voice is really listening to the Devil, then we’re all in a whole shitload of trouble, right? Hey, Jimmy Earl? You, especially.”

  At this point, Johnny and a detachment of studio security men have to intervene to prevent a fistfight between the two ministers of Jesus. The brawl spreads quickly into the audience. Fists and blood fly abundantly. The show comes to an abrupt end.

  Theological disagreements can be so disruptive.

  * * * * *

  The glow of his televised triumph over his opponents faded as time passed, and once again Malcolm found himself obsessed with the emptiness of his personal life.

  Reverend Jimmy Earl would have had a public answer to that problem, Malcolm knew — something about accepting Jesus as his personal savior. Jimmy Earl’s private, personal answer to the existential dilemma of human existence was obviously a bit different. It was more along the lines of feed the masses the nonsense they crave and charge them well for it. The first answer was philosophically repellent to Malcolm, and he had already succeeded with his own version of the second without it bringing him real satisfaction.

  For a while, Malcolm was able to occupy himself with moving to Redland Heights, where he had bought a mansion that had once belonged to an oil multimillionaire who now lived about eight miles away in a cardboard box under a highway overpass.

  One of Malcolm’s next-door neighbors, if one can speak of neighbors when the distances between houses are so great, was Pastor Carol O’Hair. Neither man was yet aware of this.

  Malcolm’s downtown condominium, which once would once have seemed a luxury almost beyond reason, had come to seem cramped. And he had ceased to find living in the center of the city exciting. Instead, he now found it noisy and crowded and frequently scary. He felt that the tranquil spaces and lovely vistas of Redland Heights fit better with his new life as one of the world’s most successful authors.

  Malcolm had always been organized about his writing but disorganized about everything else in his life. Even though he’d been living in his condominium for a relati
vely short time, the place was a mess, and as he boxed his belongings for the move, he kept finding items he had forgotten about. One of them was a slip of paper with Steve Golden’s number on it.

  Wow, Malcolm thought, Steve Golden! He still owes me a bunch of beers on the occasion of my divorce. I could use that right now. Moving is thirsty work.

  Somewhat to Malcolm’s surprise, the telephone number was still good. Also to his surprise, Steve didn’t seem delighted to hear from him.

  “I left you a few messages after I was laid off,” Steve said, his tone chilly. “I was surprised that you didn’t call back.”

  “Oh, my gosh, I never got them! I wondered what had happened to you.” Although, now that he thought about it, he remembered that he had gotten those messages but had erased them. He had intended to call Steve, really he had, but it had slipped his mind in the midst of all the exciting things that had been happening to him. “You know I finally made it, don’t you?” he asked, feeling happy all over again.

  “Yes. I’ve seen the book being advertised. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. It’s really been great. Major lifestyle change. Freedom from worrying about money. Remember how we used to talk about that all the time?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, it’s been even better than we used to imagine. So how’re you doing?”

  “Well enough. It was rough after I was laid off, but after a while I got hired by a really nice small software company. I like the people, and I like the work.”

  “There’s no security in a small company, Steve. You should try to get back in with one of the big ones.”

  Steve laughed — a harsh and bitter sound. “You think there’s any more security in a big company?”

  “Sure. You just have to keep your head down and play the game. Don’t get noticed. You know, the way it was at dear old Western Bell.”

  “That worked for you, did it?”

  “Well, obviously! I stayed there as long as I wanted to, and I quit on my own schedule, not on theirs, with my dignity and self-respect intact.”

  “I see.”

  Somehow, the conversation hadn’t sparked in the old way. Malcolm felt he was making all the effort, and Steve wasn’t holding up his end. Malcolm knew what to say to remedy that, though, what topic would get Steve’s juices flowing.

  “How’s your writing going, Steve?”

  “I don’t write any more. Wasn’t worth the time or the effort. I’m a software guy. I’m happier this way.”

  “Oh. Well, okay.” Wait a minute! Politics was a better bet to get Steve going than books. “So what do you think about that guy in the White House?”

  “I try not to think about him. Can’t do anything about it, anyway. I focus on the people I’m close to and on my work.”

  “Um, so, how’d you like to go out for a beer? A couple of beers?” Malcolm forced a laugh. “Maybe ten.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on that,” Steve said. “I’ll call you some time. Bye.”

  “Oh, right. Okay. Bye.” Malcolm hung up, feeling puzzled and hurt. Then it struck him. Golden was jealous! Instead of congratulating his old friend on finally achieving the dream they had both talked about so often, Golden was seething with envy. What a self-centered jerk!

  Well, fuck you, Golden, Malcolm thought. I don’t need you. I’ve got that career, literary fame, literary success, money, my new house.

  He threw himself back into the task of moving with even greater energy than before, if with no more organization.

  Moving his belongings, buying additional furniture for the many large rooms in the new house, and finally simply glorying in possessing the lovely place held his attention for quite a while.

  And then, inevitably, the novelty wore off and Malcolm felt empty and bored again.

  It’s just a phase I’m going through, he told himself. I need even more sex. No, I need the right kind of sex. Yeah, that’s it! I need... I need... I need Marlene’s special tongue technique!

  He sobbed aloud, for he knew that it wasn’t really the MSTT he missed so much as Marlene’s evil, destructive, but always fascinating personality. Where would he ever find her match?

  Or could his problem really be that he was no longer writing?

  Having admitted to himself that he was burned out on sexual adventure and variety — something he would once never have thought possible — and tired of mouthing nonsense before rooms full of gullible yuppies, he tried to resurrect his erstwhile habit of writing fiction for at least an hour every evening. He was horrified to find that he had been done in by an auctorial version of Gresham’s Law. The welter of bad prose he had produced in the form of Business Secrets from the Stars had driven from him the ability to produce good prose.

  Malcolm’s artistic enthusiasm wasn’t increased when he made the mistake of showing up, after a long absence, at the old writing workshop. He had expected to be greeted with deference, even awe. He was, after all, the local boy made very, very good. Instead, the reaction was condescension. He thought he detected a trace of contempt.

  Worst of all, Larry Lefkowitz was crowing about having sold that damned revolution book, now titled Lighting the Lamp: a Novel of the Second American Revolution, to Stuffy Press. Apparently it had also somehow become transformed into a fierce political satire. Malcolm couldn’t imagine Lefkowitz writing — or even saying — a single amusing line, but obviously he had been able to fool Stuffy.

  “This is the book that will destroy the Jibber administration!” Lefkowitz crowed. “As well as make my literary reputation. And I owe it all to our fearless leader.” He nodded toward the paternally beaming Joe Hoffman and laughed, and everyone laughed along with him, except for Malcolm, who of course ground his teeth. “Joe, your literary critiques and your professional advice and your support, and hell, even the title of the book — well, I would have given up long ago if not for you. Thank you, man.” He choked up. Everyone choked up, although one member of the group was choking on bile.

  And yet, even though Lefkowitz was intolerable and his sudden success was infuriating and the whole Hoffman tribute was inexcusable, Malcolm had to admit that the man had clawed his way to this point by constant effort and refusal to surrender. Being supported by his wife while he wrote full time hadn’t hurt, sure, but he had been writing steadily and determinedly even before that. And most of all, most galling and humiliating for Malcolm to admit, Lefkowitz had not compromised his beliefs. He had insisted on being who he really was, on being his real self, on writing what he really thought.

  Whereas I, Malcolm admitted, feeling horribly depressed, have become a prostitute.

  On the other hand, he rallied, I’m one of the higher paid ones.

  On the third hand, I have trouble sleeping with myself.

  On the fourth hand — no, wait, it’s still the third hand — I don’t have anyone else to sleep with right now.

  Once again, he wondered what Mrs. Lefkowitz looked like.

  Malcolm bought a copy of the Lefkowitz book as soon as it was available. It was good. It was very good indeed. That was the second most depressing thing about it. The most depressing thing was the glowing cover quote from Joe Hoffman.

  Lamp zoomed up the fiction bestseller lists. Everyone was talking or writing about it. Larry Lefkowitz was an even bigger local star than Joe Hoffman, who seemed genuinely happy about his protégé’s success. Lefkowitz certainly received far more respect in the small social circle of Piketon science-fiction writers than Malcolm did.

  So it was scarcely surprising that Malcolm found it hard to drum up much enthusiasm for writing the next business advice scam book. Moreover, silly as the Business Secrets scam was, he still found that it took up a good deal of his time. There were financial records to maintain, tax papers to file, class records and handouts to prepare. Even his almost stream-of-consciousness lectures took a certain amount of forethought. He found even one hour of writing a night difficult to achieve just because of lack of time, entirely
apart from the lack of inspiration and artistic self-discipline.

  When Mongo showed up at his door, Malcolm was thinking of simply quitting the whole silly business and finding some quiet place to work on being a writer of solid fiction once again. After all, he told himself, I’ve got enough money. I’ve made enough from this scam to take care of me for life, as long as I don’t overdo it to a monstrous degree.

  Mongo changed his mind quickly.

  Malcolm had never met Mongo — didn’t, in fact, even know the man existed. His existence, however, as he filled the doorway and stared down at Malcolm with a lack of expression, was hard to ignore.

  Malcolm looked up at Mongo, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was late evening. Finding this strange, disturbing monster at his front door was not reassuring.

  “Yes?” Malcolm said. “Hello? Wrong number?”

  Mongo smiled ever so faintly and entered, brushing Malcolm aside. Malcolm thought of leaving the door open so that the neighbors could hear his screams. Then he looked at Mongo again and realized that, if mayhem were intended, he probably wouldn’t have time to scream, so he closed the door and followed Mongo into the house. “Yes?” he said again.

  “Name’s Mongo. I work for Mr. Flicker.”

  Relief washed over Malcolm. A MegaFlicker messenger boy, that was all. Nothing to worry about. He upbraided himself for his moment of fear. To compensate, and to restore his self-respect, he assumed a lofty, superior tone. “So, you have some sort of message for me from Jimmy?”

  Mongo nodded. “Sort of message, yes. Mr. Flicker wants to know when you’ll be done with the best-selling sequel to Business Secrets from the Stars.”