Underwood, Scotch, and Wry

by Brian D. Meeks

  It occurred to him that he was making an assumption. Arthur didn’t know of any women who wore bowler hats, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. His computer would know. In the Google search bar he typed “women in bowler hats.”

  It turned out some women did wear them. He sat back down, put a hat on her head, and continued on. It didn’t stop - the words, the story, the images in his mind. It was a rush. Arthur needed to eat, but he didn’t want to quit writing.

  It was starting to get hard to see the paper. When he turned on the light, he found Maltese back on the table. Maltese meowed.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Maltese jumped to the floor and ran to his bowl.

  Arthur made a turkey sandwich. He ate it and watched the cat. Now, he needed a nap.

  ***

  Arthur eased out of his nap and laid in bed enjoying the warmth of the covers. The digital clock read 9:17, but there was an implied, “So, why not just stay in bed and sleep until morning?” Eight minutes of watching the clock later, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number and answered in a drowsier voice than normal.

  “Yeah, this is Arthur.”

  “Hey, it’s Crystal.”

  Interesting. Maybe her name really was Crystal, but I better be cautious. “Sorry, I was in a dead sleep and wasn’t really listening. Who?”

  “Crystal. We ran into you at the game.”

  “Oh, yes, I met your husband. We got to chatting and missed the opening kickoff of the second half, but it was worth it to see you again.”

  “I hear there is a great party going on at ‘The Hill.’ You still like to do shots and talk literature?”

  “I do. Believe it or not, I’ve actually started to write again.”

  “No way! You never told me why you stopped. What is it about?”

  “It’s too early to tell, but the beginning doesn’t suck.”

  “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “I’m not sure your husband would enjoy some old ex...professor of yours...going on about his scribbling.”

  “That’s okay. He’s staying in and working. It is so dull. I’ll be all by my lonesome.”

  “Such a horrible atrocity just waiting to happen.”

  “You’ll make an appearance?”

  “I’ll be there with airs of superiority on.”

  “Ciao.”

  Arthur threw off the warm comforter and showered. As he was shaving, Maltese seemed to be curious as to what was going on. “Yes, I’m shaving at night. I’ll grant you it is unusual, but Arthur is going out...”

  Maltese meowed.

  “You’re right. I shall not speak of myself in the third person again. I hate that. Anyway, there’s a soiree that promises to offer plenty of opportunities for self-aggrandizing displays of literary snobbery.”

  Maltese laid down in the doorway.

  “The long and short of it is that nubile women of an inappropriate age and questionable intelligence will find themselves overwhelmingly interested in demonstrating their prowess in all sorts of unspeakable hidden talents.”

  Maltese stretched and rolled onto his back.

  “As an educator, though it clearly goes against a societal norm of what is proper and it pains me so, I’m willing to endure the hushed tones of disapproval to allow for their personal growth. It’s quite big of me, really.”

  Maltese grew bored and left.

  Arthur got dressed and was tying his shoes when the phone rang. “Hello, Lou. Sorry I was so short earlier.”

  “No problemo, Artie.”

  “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?’

  “Yes, how’d you know?”

  “You’ve begun to channel Fonzie...and you called me Artie.”

  “Who? The bear?”

  “That’s Fozzie. Never mind.”

  “The party is rocking. I want to hear about this writing stuff.”

  “I’ve not gotten very far, but I’ll tell you all about it when I get there...providing you haven’t passed out.”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started. We won! Woot...”

  Arthur hung up as it was apparent that the hollering might continue for some time. He changed the sheets on his bed and straightened up a bit and then left.

  Lawrence’s place was only a few blocks away and he could hear the revelry long before he arrived. There were people on the lawn and out back and several on the roof over the porch. A few students cheered when he arrived. He saw Lawrence wave from the porch just as Eric called.

  “Where are you? I just got here.”

  “I think I’m going to stay in tonight,” Eric said.

  “What the hell?”

  “Emily and I had a fight. I think it’s over.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?” Arthur said while greeting enthusiastic partiers.

  “I don’t know, but things have been a little rough and finally I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “So you dumped her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then why are you staying home? You should be out celebrating your newfound freedom.”

  “I suppose, but I just don’t feel like it.”

  “Are you sure you’re doing okay? She was nice looking...and smart.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  “If you can’t count on your friends to kick you when you’re down who can you count on?”

  Arthur thought he heard a smile in the goodbye.

  A curly-haired young man sporting an unimaginable amount of tie-dye made a hand gesture that seemed friendly and said, “Dude, it’s Prof Byrne. Hey, Prof, did you see my blog post?”

  “I’m not sure. The enthusiasm has exceeded my wildest expectations. Last week alone there were over 350 posts from class blogs. Which one are you talking about?”

  “I wrote 500 words about how herb could solve global warming.”

  “I think I would have remembered that one. Send me a DM with the link. I want to check it out.”

  “Awesome,” he said, repeating the hand gesture.

  On the porch, Lawrence was waiting with a red plastic cup. “Dr. Byrne, you look parched.”

  Arthur smacked his lips and said, “You know what? I do feel that I may be on the cusp of a severe case of dehydration. Do you have any flat tap-water?”

  “I have beer.”

  “I think there’s water in beer, but we may want to consult someone outside the liberal arts college on that one.”

  Lawrence laughed and said, “I’ll ask around. Hey, I hear you are writing?’

  “It’s true, but where did you hear that?”

  “I’m not saying as I wouldn’t want to incriminate my tiny Asian sister.”

  Arthur grinned and asked, “How is Lou? I talked with her a few minutes ago. It sounded like she had been hitting it pretty hard.”

  “I think she’s on her second beer.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, she doesn’t weigh more than about a buck-o-five. I’ll keep an eye on her. That skirt she’s wearing could be trouble.”

  “Good man. We’ve got to watch each others’ backs.”

  “And some of their fronts,” Lawrence said with a wink.

  Arthur looked up to see who Lawrence meant. Emily and a friend were strolling towards them. She did not look like she was grieving the loss of her “in a relationship” status. He wondered if she had already updated Facebook.

  The proper bro protocol would be a cold shoulder followed by overt disdain. Arthur considered it, but thought he could do better. “Hello, Emily. Who is your extraordinarily fetching friend?”

  “This is Amy.”

  Amy extended her hand and said, “It is very nice to meet you...again.”

  “Ah, I am such a cad. I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. I came to your book signing in Brooklyn. Your talk was fantastic, but that was a long time ago. I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

  “I remember the signing or more spe
cifically the donuts. Most book stores avoid providing sticky things for their authors to nibble on, but they were on the cutting edge of signing technology and provided wet naps, too.”

  Amy laughed.

  Emily smiled and said, “Yes, poor Arthur here hasn’t written since then, and he won’t talk about it. He’s very secretive.”

  Amy said, “Maybe it’s personal.”

  Arthur said, “That’s not true at all. I spent several hours banging away today after the game.”

  Emily said, “You’re teasing me.”

  Arthur handed his glass back to Lawrence, who was still manning the keg, and said, “Another round of your finest mead.”

  “One beer coming up.”

  Amy asked, “What are you working on? Or do you not like to talk about something before it is done?”

  Emily said, “Oh, he’s just teasing. He hasn’t written anything in over a decade. It is a legendary and tragic case of writer’s block.”

  Arthur could tell that Emily had been knocked off her game by his comment. He affixed his best pensive face, turned to Amy, and said, “I’m honestly not sure where it is going yet. New projects are often like that. I’ve a couple of characters and am exploring their afternoon. Without even intending to do so, I’ve started channeling my inner Faulkner and woven in stream of consciousness. It is not my usual fare, but we can’t grow if we don’t push the boundaries. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Arthur wasn’t listening to Amy’s answer. He didn’t care. Emily was too polite to interrupt her friend, and it appeared to be killing her. Arthur nodded at points that seemed to appropriately convey a sense of deep interest in the speaker, but he was really watching Emily and trying to process what had just happened.

  The storyteller’s mind, though dusty and unused for many years, was humming along pretty well considering. Arthur could see Emily had created a narrative where she was the one to get the author through the personal hell he had created and would help him achieve his former glory. Emily, the character, had a delightful internal dialogue going on that he wished he could write down, but it would have to wait. Amy seemed to be winding down. Arthur tuned into her big finish.

  “...and that is why I think As I Lay Dying is such a brilliant work,” Amy said.

  Before Emily could jump in, Arthur said, “I’m mostly an arrogant sod who likes to listen to himself talk and, as such, rarely give credence to anyone’s opinion, but you have nailed the essence of Faulkner.”

  Amy seemed to be at a loss for words.

  The high praise found its mark. Emily looked to be reeling. Arthur thought she was going to go down, but Lawrence stepped in. The round was over; the bell had sounded.

  “What can I get you ladies? We’ve got beer, obviously, and quite a lot of wine inside. If you’re thinking something harder, well, we’ve got that, too. The bartender by the tiki torches can hook you up.”

  Amy asked for a beer, still glowing, as Emily thanked Lawrence, but Arthur didn’t hang around. He used their moment of distraction to slip into the house.

  Once inside, Arthur found himself partnered with the friend of one of his students for a match of beer pong. It took little time for a crowd to gather; it seemed Arthur was a fan favorite. It wasn’t enough, and he and his bubbly teammate were bounced.

  Arthur didn’t mind as the next team had been sitting on a couch, and their seat was now empty. He settled into it. He seemed to have found a fine spot. The song changed from a formulaic beat with a lot of bass to “Sympathy for The Devil”.

  “You made it,” Wen said.

  “Lou?”

  “What do you think?”

  The pirouette lasted just long enough for Arthur to wipe the gawk from his face.

  “On a scale of one to ‘I don’t think your mother would approve,’ I’d say ‘wow.’”

  “Thanks,” she said and introduced her two friends. “This is Fiona and Cheryl.”

  “Where’s Bosley?”

  Fiona and Wen laughed, but Cheryl didn’t get the joke.

  Wen flopped down on Arthur’s right and Fiona on his left. Cheryl grabbed a corner of the coffee table and said, “Wen says you’re a famous author.”

  “Have you ever heard of me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m obviously not.”

  “You’re not an author?” Cheryl asked, seeming confused.

  “No, I am, but if you’ve never heard of me then I must not be famous.”

  Fiona said, “I’ve heard of you.”

  Wen leaned her shoulder into Arthur’s and said, “I want to hear about your new book.”

  Arthur didn’t answer at first as he was momentarily struck dumb by Wen’s expertly executed leg cross. He could tell it wasn’t her first leg cross, either. Arthur found it strangely enticing and disturbing. “Well, I can’t say for sure that it will end up a book, but it was a pretty good start.”

  It wasn’t Arthur’s first time, either. He may not have known where his writing was heading, but he knew how to tell a story, and he wove a beauty. A little bit about the characters to start whetted their appetites. Fiona jumped in with a question, which led to an heroic explanation. Three hot women, gathered in rapt adoration, had a gravitational pull that defies Newtonian physics...and Newtonian physicists. Two frat boys, who didn’t realize they were being drawn into a talk about writing, pulled up chairs.

  In the world of self-aggrandizement, a smart move was to circle back from time to time so that the new folks could be brought up to speed. It needed to be handled with a deft touch, but there were a few tricks one could learn, and Arthur had invented most of them. He took the last pull of his beer and held the cup upside down. With a sad look deep into Cheryl’s eyes he said, “It pains me to see such a fine cup empty. Oh, well, where was I?”

  “If you promise not to continue without me...and to save my spot, I’ll grab you another beer.”

  Channeling P.T. Barnum, Arthur said, “Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for Cheryl who is willing to right a terrible wrong.”

  The crowd, now close to a dozen, cheered.

  Fiona said, “Hey, would you take our picture?” She handed her phone to the frat guy who had been checking her out.

  Fiona and Wen snuggled up close and smiled. Arthur was already smiling.

  “Let me see,” Arthur asked.

  Fiona showed him and Wen. This led to a picture with Wen’s phone and an even tighter Arthur sandwich.

  Arthur heard a few mumblings about why the crowd was gathering, and he seized the moment. “Oh, I was just answering Wen’s question about my new book. Do you like to read?’

  Most wouldn’t admit they didn’t, so it was a safe question. After the “yes,” Arthur gave a quick recap of all the crowd had missed.

  The crowd was enthralled. Arthur used fine brush strokes to paint his story. Had Cheryl returned with only the beer, he might have continued on until he had a fresco that rivaled the Sistine Chapel’s. She had, in fact, come back with Arthur’s beer, which she only promised to give him if he did a Jell-O shot.

  The cookie sheet full of Jell-O shots looked ominous to Arthur. The crowd cheered. Wen said, “I bet this is how Bill Cosby gets drunk,” and handed one to Fiona.

  Cheryl took one and passed the tray off to someone else as she handed Arthur his beer.

  Fiona said, “To Cosby,” and raised her shot.

  Arthur raised his and added, “Why is there air?” He tilted his head back. The shot was grape Jell-O and vodka. It was so good that he didn’t care if anyone got his reference. It wouldn’t be their last shot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Sleep ceased, but he wasn’t ready to give up. His eyes remained shut. His only thought was I’m awake; now what? Arthur bounced the query off the inside of his head. It echoed, but nobody answered. Again he asked, but only silence. A third attempt and subsequent failure made him think he might be dead, but that was a thought and a start.

  Arthur’s eyes barely opened. A familia
r ceiling greeted and comforted him. He reached a conclusion: he wasn’t dead. In an unrelated bit of thinking, Arthur decided he might like a painting above his bed that gave the illusion of a Gothic dome. The idea kept him occupied for a while.

  Thirst was a problem, but Arthur couldn’t work out how to get a straw strong enough or of sufficient length to make it from his bed to the refrigerator. He considered the difficulty in opening the door, removing the water pitcher, and filling the glass. Maybe it was a magic straw that could go through the door straight into the water. Regardless, he didn’t have such a straw.

  He closed his eyes again, defeated.

  More than water, Arthur wanted to return to that place where dreams happened because they likely had water or, at the very least, the straw of Zeus. It had to be the sort of thing the gods used on Mount Olympus after a night of too many ambrosia shots.

  He could not return, but there wasn’t any reason he needed to open his eyes. Nope, he wouldn’t do it. Nobody could make him.

  A voice stirred and said, Too bad you weren’t more strong-willed last night.

  Arthur wasn’t sure where his little voice was going with this.

  You seemed to be made to drink by everyone.

  Arthur knew the mountain of evidence bore this out. He could hear a streetcar named “hangover” coming down the street. It wouldn’t be long now.

  The start of the Jell-O shots was the last saved memory that remained uncorrupted on his brain. He could recall an eloquent proclamation that “Jell-O was to be brought forth for all in the kingdom.” There wasn’t any indication who the speaker might have been, but the voice sounded eerily Arthur-like.

  Had Crystal delivered round two?

  His mental camera must have gone out at that point because there was a long period of black. The audio said something about “body shots.” The voice might have been Emily’s or Amy’s, but he wasn’t sure. The crowd’s cheers were clear, though.

  The audio track died out, too.

  The next memory was from Edgar’s Pit. It made little sense, but a discussion seemed to have centered around the rules for a pants exchange. This seemed like it might be a “bad” memory.