This Other Eden

by Michael Hemmingson

  “"Yeah,”" Johnny Ray says flatly, “"that be me.”"

  “"I loved your book.”"

  “"Thank you kindly.”"

  “"Johnny,”" you say. “"Jonathan.”"

  “"I love it when you call me that.”"

  “"You made it.”"

  “"It was a hairy flight,”" he says. “"Hairy like a skunk’s ass, and just as smelly. Lots of bumps in the air. What do they call that stuff? Turby. But I had this.”" He removes a flask from his overalls. “"Always helps.”"

  “"And what’s that?”" Molli says.

  “"Moonshine, baby,”" says Johnny Ray. “"Distilled it myself. My grandpapppy’s original recipe.”"

  “"Wow.”"

  “"You’re Miss Runes.”"

  “"And you’re Mr. Thorn.”"

  “"Seems we have much in common.”"

  “"Yeah, our names pop up on the same bestseller lists.”"

  “"And we have this crazy man.”"

  Johnny Ray wraps a big arm around your neck. You wince. You smile. You can smell his armpit. Molli slaps you on the ass. They both laugh.

  “"Well,”" you say.

  “"I read your stories,”" Johnny Ray says letting you go and stepping toward Molli, “"and I wanted to meet you.”"

  Molli stares up at him like she would view a mountain in the desert.

  “"I can’t say I’ve read yours. I have it, but it’s just too big for a girl like me.”"

  “"One day you’ll be able to take it.”"

  “"I’m sure I will.”"

  “"Enough of this,”" you say. “"Let’s get out of here.”"

  “"Yeah,”" Molli says, “"we have a stretch.”"

  ***

  There are five of you in the limo. Molly and Johny Ray invited the fellow in the brown jacket and a skinny clerk from the bookstore; they are both aspiring writers and they want to show you their stuff, they want book deals, they want to be famous. They are like nineteen-year-old porn actresses who’ve shot two videos with visions of money and underground fame. You usually tell them (on the phone) that you have too many clients, but since they’re here in the limo and drinking martinis, you tell them, “"Send me what you have, here’s my card, send me your novel or story collection, let’s see what you got.”"

  The bookstore clerk says she has an historical novel she’s been working on since she was Molli’s age; the fellow in the jacket says he’s written “"the new novel.”"

  “"And what’s that?”" Johnny Ray says. “"What’s that shit?”"

  “"My novel would blow you away, man.”"

  “"It would have to be a mighty wind,”" Molli says, “"to blow such a big guy like Johnny Ray away.”"

  Something happens - —tires screech, brakes groan, there’s a thump and a smash and everyone spills their drinks on themselves. Molli yelps. The limousine has come to a stop. Seems another limousine - —a longer one - —has hit yours. The longer limo overflows with drunken prep school boys in blue jackets and red ties. They all have blonde hair.

  Other cars honk. Cabs, mostly. The two limo drivers yell at each other in the street.

  “"What the fuck?”" the prep school boys say. “"Someone’s gonna pay for screwing up our night.”"

  Molli opens the sun roof and pops her head out.

  “"What’s with you jackasses? Can’t you hire a driver who can drive?”"

  “"Hey, look at the little girl.”"

  Molli sticks out her tongue. She opens her white blouse and flashes her tits. She giggles and ducks back in the limo. The boys—half a dozen of them—surround the limo, pound on the windows; they say they want Molli to come out.

  “"Step out, honey,”" they say, “"we wanna rape you!”"

  “"Hold this,”" Johnny Ray says, handing you his flask. He walks out of the limo like Godzilla emerging from the ocean. The boys all go quiet.

  Your star author defends the honor of your other star author by beating the living crap out of the preppies; you sniff the flask. Smells like gasoline; the moonshine burns your throat but it gives you an immediate buzz, the best you’ve ever had. So you drink more.

  ***

  You wake up on a bed in the SoHo Grand. It’s six a.m. Molli is next to you and she’s getting up. She’s wearing pink pajamas. Johnny Ray is asleep on the floor. Your head is pounding and your eyes hurt. It’s your first hangover.

  “"Oh God,”" you say.

  “"Don’t worry, nothing happened,”" Molli says. “"I have to get a shower. Morning talk show, remember? Go back to sleep.”"

  You close your eyes. You open your eyes three hours later. Johnny Ray is talking on your cell phone. You sit up.

  “"He’s awake,”" Johnny Ray says. He holds out the phone. “"It’s for you. Good news.”"

  “"Who is it?”"

  “"L.A.”"

  It’s Bernard Goldman.

  “"Hey, guy,”" he says. “"Okay, so Thorn ain’t so bad. It’s all in the presentation, but the man has talent. Let’s seal the deal.”"

  You do some talking;, say, “"FedEx the paperwork to my office,”" and you go to the bathroom and piss. You almost puke. Walls are still spinning. You don’t like this feeling.

  Johnny Ray is sitting on the bed and looking out the window.

  “"They’re really gonna make a movie of my life,”" he says. “"Weird.”"

  “"Where’s Molli?”"

  “"She took off to her TV thing. I wanna do TV things.”"

  “"What happened last night?”"

  “"Let’s see. We got in a fender bender, I whooped some Central Park rich ass that needed a whooping, we escaped the cops, and you got drunk as a skunk, my friend.”"

  “"You didn’t do anything with Molli, did you?”"

  “"Oh, man, that’s a dumb thing to ask.”"

  “"Did I?”"

  “"We had to carry you up here.”"

  “"I’ve never been drunk,”" you say.

  “"Welcome to the real world.”"

  “"Drunk people do dumb things.”"

  “"Look, about Molli,”" he says. “"She’s a child. This whole wayward slut thing is an act. We talked; she’s a virgin. She knows the game. It sells books, right?”"

  “"Right.”"

  “"And that’s all that matters, right?”"

  “"Right.”"

  “"So why don’t you get washed up and let’s go get us some pancakes?”" he says. “"Do you like pancakes?”"

  “"Jonathan,”" you say, “"right now I could eat a whole stack of them. Lots of butter, lots of syrup.”"

  “"Breakfast is a very, very important thing in a man’s life.”"

  You couldn’t agree more.

  And Then It Happened

  Then a moment passed and all was changed.

  - Samuel Beckett

  I come from a dizzy land where the lottery is the basis for reality.

  - Jorge Luis Borges

  Harry M. Evans won the California State Lottery three days after turning thirty-three. There hadn’t been a winner for several weeks and the jackpot was $88 million. He heard the winning numbers on the radio while driving away from his ex-wife’s house. It used to be his home. He had been visiting Isabelle, his eight-year-old daughter; he heard the numbers and looked at his lottery ticket and saw the same exact numbers and then crashed his ten-year-old Mustang convertible into a thick and bent oak tree.

  He stumbled away from the unfortunate wreck, bleeding at the head and mouth, clutching his winning ticket like a Knights Templar who’d just found the Holy Grail.

  He walked twelve blocks toward downtown and stopped at a twenty-four-hour Kinko’s, where he photocopied the ticket.

  The pink-haired young woman working behind the counter had blue eyes and bright white teeth and small pink lips.

  She said, “"You’re bleeding, sir.”"

  “"I know.”"

  “"Are you all right?”"

  “"I’m just fine. Thank you for asking.”"

  They smiled at
each other and he paid the eight cents for his photocopy.

  The pink-haired young woman with the blue eyes and the bright white teeth and small pink lips handed him some tissues and said, “"Here. Take these.”"

  “"Thanks again.”"

  “"You sure you’re all right?”" she asked. She seemed genuinely concerned. He liked that. Her name tag read “"DENISE.”"

  “"I’ve never been better, Denise,”" said Harry M. Evans.

  He flagged a taxicab and went home. The ride cost $11 plus a $2 tip; this was a good thing because his wallet contained only a $10 bill and five ones. He was bored with being consistently broke. He stared at the photocopy of the ticket for about an hour and decided it couldn’t be the real deal. He called the California Lottery Commission’s automated line; a recording read off the same numbers.

  He verified this when the 11:00 news showed the evening’s winning numbers.

  In bed he stared at his numbers. Then it was four in the morning. He didn’t think he’d sleep but he did; he dreamt about the numbers dancing around, running away from him, taunting him. He called in sick to work.

  “"I ate something bad, my stomach is turning inside out.”"

  “"You’ve missed too many days,”" the general manager at the department store said. “"I’ve warned you more than once, Evans.”"

  Harry was a retail worker at the Shopping Mall, selling men’s clothes and cologne and kissing a lot of ass on the sales floor to get that minimum wage plus 13% commission.

  He hated the job.

  So he said, “"Fire me.”"

  He said, “"I don’t care.”"

  He said, “"Do it.”"

  The GM said, “"Fire you? So you can collect unemployment on our dime? Think again, Evans.”"

  “"Then I quit.”"

  “"You what? What say you?”"

  “"I quit,”" Harry said.

  “"Good,”" his ex-boss said, and hung up.

  Harry said to himself: “"Well that’s that.”" He started to feel insecure about the future of things, et cetera.

  On the morning news showed the winning numbers again and an anchor said: “"The $88 million ticket was sold right here, at a small liquor store…”"

  He called an escort service out of the Yellow Pages. Why? The loneliness of his good fortune was unbearable; he was excited and full of adrenaline.

  It was 10 a.m.

  “"Do you send girls out this early?”"

  “"Twenty-four-seven, honey,”" the woman on the other line said, and then she blew her breath into the phone.

  “"I want the best you got.”"

  “"We got the best in town, baby,”" and then she coughed and the cough sounded painful. “"Sorry. What can we do for you?”"

  “"I want a blonde,”" he said.

  “"We have plenty of those.”"

  He gave his MasterCard number. He had about $600 of available credit. An hour later, a young woman with a blonde wig showed up. He didn’t mind the wig. She wore a green mini-skirt and a white blouse.

  “"What do you want to do?”"

  “"Everything.”"

  “"Everything could be too much.”"

  “"Are you kidding?”"

  “"I never joke, guy.”"

  “"So what can I get?”"

  “"What do you want?”"

  “"I want a lot.”"

  “"It’ll cost you.”"

  “"That’s all right.”"

  When she left, he felt lonelier and there wasn’t much of a balance left on his card. Later, he called his ex-wife and asked to speak to his daughter.

  “"What do you want to talk to her about?”"

  “"That’s none of your business.”"

  “"I’m her mother, and it is my business.”"

  “"Let’s not do this,”" he said, “"not right now.”"

  Joanna sighed the sigh of a disgruntled mother.

  Harry said, “"I just want to hear her voice.”"

  Joanna sighed again.

  “"Daddy,”" said Isabelle.

  “"Oh,”" Harry said, “"I just want you to know, I love you very much.”"

  “"Oh,”" she said, “"I love you too, Daddy.”"

  “"And I want you to know, real soon the world will be yours.”"

  “"Okay.”"

  The next call was to the Lottery Commission. He had to go through several menus to get a live voice on the other line. He said he was the winner and no one seemed impressed and was transferred three times until he was, apparently, connected to the right person.

  A man on the other line said, “"Can you prove this?”"

  He had a very deep voice, like the actor James Earl Jones.

  “"I hope I can,”" Harry said.

  “"Send me a fax of the ticket.”"

  “"I can do that.”"

  “"Here’s my fax number...”"

  Harry had a large, clunky fax machine in his closet - a Christmas gift from his father and stepmother. It was still in the box, sealed. He got the machine out of the box, read the instructions, and hooked it to his phone line. He faxed the photocopy to the man with the deep voice at the Lottery Commission.

  The man with the deep voice called back within five minutes and said, “"Looks like this is it. We can come down to San Diego immediately and begin the process.”"

  Harry had to take sleeping pills that night because, after all, he was too excited to relax.

  ***

  People began to call when the news got out.

  First, of course: Joanna. “"Is this for real? I mean...”"

  “"Yes,”" he said. He wondered if that check from the State would actually clear. He’d opted for the straight payout, instead of twenty annual checks; after taxes, it came to about $38 million.

  “"So,”" said his ex-wife, “"I’ve been thinking about this.”"

  “"I bet you have,”" he said.

  “"What’s my cut?”"

  He closed his eyes.

  “"What do I get?”"

  “"You don’t get shit,”" he told her; he hated that it sounded good to utter those words.

  “"What was that?”"

  “"You heard me.”"

  “"I get a cut,”" Joanna said, her voice close to shouting, “"I get something.”"

  “"Hey,”" Harry said, “"did you forget you’re no longer my wife? You have not been my wife for a long, long time.”"

  “"We have a goddamn child,”" Joanna said. “"You know?”"

  “"Yeah,”" he said. “"I know.”"

  “"What about her?”"

  “"I’ll take care of her.”"

  “"And what about me?”"

  “"You,”" he said happily, “"can go fuck yourself.”"

  He didn’t want to be this way; this wasn’t him.

  “"You don’t have to be so crude,”" Joanna said.

  “"Hey,”" he said, “"I’m sorry.“"

  She said, “"Asshole.”"

  He listened to her breathing.

  “"You can’t do this.”"

  “"Oh...yes I can.”"

  “"It’s not right. I’ll sue you.”"

  “"Yeah,”" Harry said.

  “"You’re going to be sorry, you know that,”" she said. “"You’re going to be sorry.”"

  “"Yeah,”" he said. “"I know.”"

  “"I hate you.”"

  “"Yes,”" he said. “"I know.”"

  “"So will Isabelle,”" she said, “"I’ll make sure of that.”"

  And she hung up.

  ***

  “"Harrison,”" said his stepmother, Alexia, long distance, “"Harrison Marvin Evans, can you hear me, kiddo?”"

  “"I hear you, Mom.”"

  He never liked being called Harrison and she knew this; she did it just to annoy him.

  “"Is this a good connection?”" she asked.

  “"It is, Mom.”"

  He never liked calling her Mom, but she had always insisted. So did his father, who married her when Harry was ten yea
rs old.

  “"I hear static, Harrison.”"

  “"You’re coming in fine.”"

  She was calling from Sacramento.

  “"Is that ‘you’ they’re talking about on the news?”"

  “"I believe it is,”" said Harry. “"What are they saying?”"

  “"That you’re ‘rich’. Is this true?”"

  Before he could reply, his father, Gerrold, got on the other line and said, “"Harry? Harry, my boy, is it true?”"

  “"Dad,”" he said, “"well—”"

  “"I’m talking to him,”" said Alexia.

  “"Hang up,”" Gerrold said, “"I’m talking to him now.”"

  “"WELL!”" Alexia said and slammed down her phone.

  “"We can talk safely now,”" Gerrold said. “"So…is it true?”"

  “"Yes.”"

  “"Why didn’t you call?”"

  “"I meant to. I was about to.”"

  “"This is grand news.”"

  “"It is;, it is. Isn’t it? It is.”"

  “"I always knew you were destined for great things, son.”"

  “"Well…—”"

  “"Listen.”"

  “"Dad.”"

  “"Listen.”"

  “"Dad, I am.”"

  “"Alexia, your mother, she’s already spending your money,”" and he chuckled but it was a hollow sound over the phone.

  “"I don’t understand,”" Harry said.

  “"She has ideas for investments, gifts, things - —things she wants and has designs on...”"

  “"Um,”" said Harry.

  “"Don’t let her,”" Gerrold Evans said, “"don't let her talk you into anything stupid and silly.”"

  “"I won’t.”"

  “"And don’t give her any money, okay?”"

  “"Okay.”"

  “"Harry?”"

  “"Dad.”"

  “"I’m serious.”"

  “"I know.”"

  “"I’m serious,”" he said again. “"You don’t know how…”"