Notes on the Novel in Progress
To keep in mind:
In fiction, as opposed to life, everyone exists for a reason.
Eliminate superfluous characters. Take care with the ones who are left.
To research:
Gothic castles, air currents, holding patterns, sausages.
Possible title:
The Edge of the Earth
5
The big weird guy had made him nervous. And Fishy always watching from across the street didn’t help. For days Mason turned wieners, sweating over the grill, waiting for the hotdog SWAT team to descend. Then, as he was packing up the cart one afternoon, he saw the big weird guy walk by.
“Hey!” he said. “Excuse me!” But the guy kept on walking. Mason left his post and caught up to him at the corner. “Excuse me,” he said.
The man flinched. He was wearing sunglasses.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Mason.
“All right,” said the man.
“I’ve just got to know … Are you a hotdog watch—are you a cart inspector?”
“I’m a computer programmer. What’s a cart inspector?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“All right.” He turned away from Mason to cross the street.
“It’s just … You didn’t eat your hotdog.”
The man stopped.
“The other day—you bought a hotdog from me, but then you threw it in the garbage without even trying it.”
“I did try.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m very sorry for any trouble I caused you.”
“No, it was no trouble….” Mason didn’t know how they’d got to this point. “I’m sorry.”
They stood looking at each other.
“Okay then …,” said the man.
“I’ve got to get back to my cart,” said Mason.
They nodded once and went their separate ways.
When Mason arrived home, Chaz was sitting on his couch drinking a beer.
“How you doing, daisy?” His mood had improved substantially.
“Just because you have a key doesn’t mean you can let yourself in. Only in case of emergency.” Mason tossed his jacket onto a chair. “It’s in the tenant’s act and everything.”
“It was an emergency.” Chaz gave the bottle a lift. “Insufferable thirst. And anyway, you haven’t paid any rent yet.”
Mason pulled out a wad of cash wrapped in an elastic band. He tossed it onto the couch.
“This before or after Fishy?”
“I don’t trust that guy.”
“That’s okay. He doesn’t trust you either.”
“But my name’s not Fishy.”
“No, Mr. Dubious, it ain’t. But you still gotta pay him.” He picked up the wad of cash. “Tell you what, let’s play for it.”
Chaz was a dealer who didn’t do drugs, a gangster who disliked violence, and except for Mason’s beer, he barely ever drank—but he liked the cards almost as much as Mason did. “Look at it as a bundle,” he said. “Like the cable companies offer you: rent, drugs, poker debts, all in one easy payment plan.” He grinned. “C’mon, dogboy. Don’t you want your spinach back?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Mason. But the cards were already in his hands.
Notes on the Novel in Progress
To consider:
Why the fuck are you still writing this thing? What is it even ABOUT?
To research:
Heroin. Horse thievery. HOW TO WRITE A FUCKING NOVEL!
To keep in mind:
Breathe. Some days are better than others. Do NOT try to write after losing at poker.
Possible title:
Five Years Wasted
6
It was a warm day for the middle of April. Mason was strung out and pissed off after his bad night at cards. He’d lost it all and was starting from scratch with another fucking hotdog.
He could feel himself sweating, and his back ached in that way that seemed to come right from his heart and liver. He’d read somewhere that those were the only two organs with the ability to regenerate completely—each cell reborn, if you could just find a way to make it happen. It gave him more hope than he probably deserved. He cracked open a bottle of water, his eyes closing as he glugged down half of it.
“I’ve got a lot of fears,” said a voice.
Mason opened his eyes.
“I am scared of heights,” said the large man with the sunglasses. “I’m scared of tunnels. Of public places, intimacy, spiders, germs. I’m scared of sunsets, dreadlocks, short people, odd numbers, the colour orange….”
“The colour orange?” said Mason.
“Actually, any colour that’s not primary disturbs me. But orange the most. I don’t like things mixing together. That’s why I threw out your hotdog.”
“Oh.”
“I had to tell you that.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry if this is awkward for you,” said the man, staring intently. “It’s difficult for me, too. I have a profound fear of speaking to strangers.”
“Then, well … Why are you?”
“It’s important for me to face my fears.”
And now Mason could see how much effort this was taking—how the man’s huge body appeared locked in place. “And also you seem like a nice guy.”
Mason, unaccustomed to people telling him such things, took a long drink of water. Then cleared his throat. “Why did you look?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“The hotdog. Before you took a bite … you looked in the bun. Is that what did it for you?”
The man nodded. “It’s a tricky balance. I like the way hotdogs taste.”
“Why don’t you give it another shot?”
Again the man nodded, more to himself than to Mason. “I could come back in the afternoon.”
“Sure.”
“When there aren’t any crowds. Okay then.” He held out his hand, steady and practised. “My name is Warren.”
A wave of nausea flooded Mason. He looked down at the counter until it passed. Warren’s arm was still outstretched.
“I’m sorry,” said Mason, taking off his plastic glove. “I used to have a horse by that name.” He shook Warren’s hand. “I’m Mason … He was a good horse.”
They looked at each other.
“Well, it’s good to meet you, Mason. I’ll come back after lunch.”
Then he walked away—Mason’s dead horse hanging in the air.
Notes on the Novel in Progress
Life is a room: you’re born in a room, die in a room, sit in rooms that glide across the land.
From the moment of birth the world expands outward, and so does the protagonist—from boy to rebel to traveller to hero.
And then, one day, it starts to shrink again (traveller to drifter to living in a box) until the universe is just a room again.
The room as narrative device:
First, fill it with stuff. Now look around; the objects in the room will turn into stories.
When all the stories are told, the room is empty.
When the room is empty, the story is over.
To research:
Phobias, horse trailers, caves, GPS guidance systems.
Possible title:
Room to Move
7
By his second week as the Dogfather, Mason felt he was getting a handle on things. He was burning fewer hotdogs, not drinking as much and doing less drugs. He’d looked into getting a gym membership and had even worked on the novel a bit.
The hotdog job wasn’t that bad—kind of like being an open-air, lunchtime bartender. People were in a fairly good mood and kind of dopey since the snow had melted, like they were still stretching after hibernation. They’d comment on the Dogfather thing, make a lame joke—often quite accurate (You guys laundering money through this thing?)—then hang around and whine good-naturedly about their lives. Mason listened
and sometimes offered advice. He watched the girls walk by and waited for Warren, who remained his most interesting customer.
They’d figured out a system so that Warren could eat his hotdog. Mason kept a bag of romaine lettuce in the cooler. He applied a line of ketchup to the dog, laid out four spears of onion, wrapped it all in lettuce then put it on the counter. All that was left for Warren was the mustard and the pickles. The lettuce leaf held the juices in. Then, on a whim, Warren added two slices of yellow banana pepper. He confessed to an unsettled feeling. But this time it was more butterflies than nausea. He took a bite.
“I was thinking about the colour orange,” said Mason, as Warren continued to eat. “You’re right—I don’t much like it either. It’s shrill, isn’t it? Caution signs, religious cults, convicts … and those guys—what are they called? Those guys who are always marching….”
Warren wiped his mouth. “The Orangemen?”
“Right.” Mason laughed. “The Orange Men.”
Warren nodded as he ate. He seemed appreciative of Mason’s willingness to turn someone’s irrational fear into rational theory. The hotdog finished, he crumpled up his napkin and dropped it into the garbage. “So Mason—you’re a writer. Where can I read your work?”
“I dunno …,” said Mason. It was an embarrassing thing to talk about, especially while serving hotdogs. “There’s probably some magazine stuff online…. I’m working on a novel.”
“What’s it about?”
He hated this question, mostly because he didn’t have a good answer. “A bunch of stuff….”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know: horses … memory … different kinds of freedom. It’s kind of complicated. And it’s about a room that moves.”
“Oh.”
“But actually I’m not sure about that now….”
“Oh?”
“And there’s all this stuff that happened in the past—there’s like three different time frames, and one of them is still unfolding. It’s kind of an adventure story. It’s hard to explain….”
Warren nodded. “What’s your last name again?”
Mason told him. Warren wrote it down. Then, as if in return for this information, he said, “I’ve fallen in love.”
“Really?”
Warren nodded. They looked at each other. Mason felt he had to say something more.
“What’s her name?” It was a lame question and he was thankful when Warren, instead of answering, asked for a bag of chips.
“What kind?” said Mason.
“Dill pickle.”
He handed them over.
“Thanks for the hotdog,” said Warren, then he headed back to work.
Notes on the Novel in Progress
What is it about?
Simple fucking question. Should have a simple fucking answer.
Things need to happen more quickly.
Possible title:
Forget the Fucking Title!
Make something happen!
8
It was mid-afternoon on a blustery day. Fishy Berlin was watching him from the other side of the street, his fishy arm around a lamppost.
Warren walked up to the window. The wind blew his hair sideways.
“I Googled you,” he said. “Got some stories you wrote off the Internet … I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh sure, that’s okay.”
“They were good.”
“Thanks … You want a hotdog?”
“Please.”
Mason put one on the grill.
“Why aren’t you writing any more?”
“What do you mean?”
“All those stories were old. And you’re—well, you’re selling hotdogs.”
“I told you,” said Mason. “I’m working on a novel.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“I dunno. Five years.”
“How much have you been paid?”
“That’s not how it works. It’s not like you can just … What?”
“Here’s the thing.” Warren took a breath. “I think you should put the novel aside, just for now, and write something else.”
“Thanks for the advice.” He placed a bun on the upper rack.
“It’s not advice. It’s an offer: I want you to write something for me.”
Mason turned the wiener on the grill.
“I want you to write me a love letter.”
“Sorry, Warren, but I don’t really feel that way about you. Maybe with time …”
Warren stammered out a laugh. “No—for me to give to someone.”
Mason wrapped the hotdog in lettuce.
“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars.”
Mason turned the heat down on the grill. “You’re kidding.”
“It won’t be an easy sell,” said Warren. “I’m a strange person”
Mason put the hotdog on the counter. Warren pulled an envelope from his pocket and lined it up along the edge of the napkin.
“That’s a one-thousand-dollar advance, plus five dollars for the hotdog, and I’d like a Sprite too, please…. So actually you owe me a dollar.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s how it works. You’ll get the rest on receipt of an acceptable manuscript. You should know this stuff, Mason.” He reached for the mustard.
Mason put the Sprite on the counter, then opened the envelope. “This is crazy….”
Warren took off his sunglasses. He looked at Mason. His eyes were large, rimmed with pale, white skin. “Please listen to me,” he said. “This is between you and me, and it is not a joke. I need you to take it seriously. Are you able to do that?”
Mason nodded. At that moment a dark-skinned man in an orange sweater appeared. He asked for a veggie dog. Warren picked up his hotdog and Sprite, and the wind picked up his napkin.
“Wait!” said Mason, startling the vegetarian. “I … I still owe you a dollar.”
“Next time,” called Warren over his shoulder. “I trust you, buddy.”
People rarely told Mason they trusted him. It was the way to his heart.
Over the next four days Mason learned more about Warren than he ever wanted to know about anyone. The story of Warren’s life had a strange ebb and flow. What at first glance appeared a string of disturbing, seemingly unrelated events, took on a jagged sort of sense when seen through Warren’s fears—crippling hesitation followed by leaps of faith, sometimes panicked, sometimes brave.
He was born in 1957, he said, just outside of Boston—an unsure boy in a self-conscious suburb. He grew fast and large and always felt out of place.
In junior high he tried out for the basketball team with the express purpose of overcoming his worsening fears—of crowds, of kids, of echoing spaces. He was already tall, and that carried him through tryouts. He got rid of the ball as fast as possible and had the makings of a good guard. But then, in the first quarter of the first game, in that big bright gym, he freaked right out. Somebody passed him the ball, and he just held on to it, frozen and shaking, like Superman with a lump of orange kryptonite. He fell to the floor and the game was stopped.
After that he was a pariah. They came up with new names for him all the time: Weirdo Warren, Frankenballs. He fought back once. Two young men beat him to the ground and then everyone dog-piled on. A girl in stilettos (he was sure she didn’t mean to do it) stomped clumsily onto his groin. The left testicle burst—his freakishness complete.
His family moved to Florida. He read a lot, went to university but quit to work with a newly established branch of the International High Commission on Refugees. He learned to travel, and to control his breathing. He was freaked out all the time, and the world was his. In Mozambique he fell sick. Small worms started crawling out from behind his eyes. He went blind and almost died and fell in love with one of the nurses. By the time he could see again, his fear of the dark—once unbearable—had disappeared. But so had the nurse. And then all he wanted was to be in love.
Mozamb
ique was the wrong place for it. When an eleven-year-old boy kicked a sick dog in the head right in front of him, Warren threw him onto a pile of tires. A hidden tire jack, broken and sharp, went through the boy’s ribcage. There was death all over the place, though, and Warren returned to the United States without being charged.
He started drifting. He’d never been a drinker, but one night he found himself in an Oklahoma bus depot bar on open mike night. He drank a bottle of Baby Duck champagne, got on stage then spent the next three years travelling up and down the east coast as a stand-up comic. Mason found this difficult to picture.
“Were you, um …?”
“Funny?” said Warren.
Mason shrugged, half apologetically.
“What? You don’t think I could be funny?”
“I’m just asking…. What kind of bits did you do?”
“Bits?”
“Or whatever …”
“Mostly they were, you know, personal anecdote stuff—honest things about my life, but with a humorous slant….”
Mason tried to imagine it: Right onto a tire jack … I mean really! You can never find one when you need it!… Did I mention I’m short a testicle? Trust me: girls just love it. They’re like Oh! Didn’t Hitler have that…? By the way, I have a fear of people looking at me. No, I’m serious—can you please stop looking at me!
Canadian audiences were particularly receptive to Warren’s brand of counterintuitive, confessional humour. He scored a two-month gig at a racetrack outside Toronto, rented an apartment, won six thousand dollars on the trotters, quit comedy, enrolled himself in a computer programming course, got a job and now—six years later—had fallen in love with a woman named Carolina.
Nowadays he liked to read and go for walks. His favourite thing was to walk down to the lakeshore when the fog rolled in. He spent a lot of time alone.
“I guess you’re right,” said Warren. “I wasn’t very funny.”
9
Mason shuffled cards and drank, thinking about Warren. Usually, neurotic people drove him kind of crazy, but Warren was different. Right from the start he’d confronted his fears, even as his life had become more dangerous—a hostile world of stilettos, worms and broken tire jacks. Mason could identify with that. Not that he himself had ever been a fearful person—quite the opposite—but, like Warren, he’d sought out danger, had decided early on that middle-class life would make him soft, and set out in search of trauma. And now here he was—a drunken, traumatized thirty-year-old hotdog salesman writing love letters to people he’d never even met. And still he wasn’t particularly scared. But he was impressed by Warren.
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