The only way to break the cycle was to not care. But no matter how he tried he just couldn’t trick himself into it. He owed so much damn money…. A Warrior Monk wouldn’t care about such things. But a monk didn’t have to worry about the rent. A monk didn’t have to worry about his drug habit and how much all this booze cost, and keeping the condiments fresh.
Mason did a line, then cracked open a popper and inhaled deeply. The coke and nitro mix sent shivers through his brain stem. The rush was intense, and for a moment he felt something more than Zen. He felt kingly. Godlike. Powerful.
And then Chaz arrived.
After a while, Mason was losing. He’d bought back in twice for a thousand dollars. Chaz had humped his chair as he counted it out and now he was composing an opera. Its main theme involved Mason’s lack of prowess—mostly in the ways of courtship, lovemaking, rational thought and Texas hold’ em. Right now his aria went something like: “Why is he so bad? Tell me tell me tell me, why so bad, at ev-ry-thiiiiiing?” Chaz had a mountain of chips.
There was two hundred dollars in the pot and the flop was yet to be dealt. Mason had an eight and an ace. They both checked.
Mason dealt it: eight, eight, two.
He checked. Chaz bet eight hundred.
Mason sat there. His measly hand had become a great one. Three eights would kill just about anything. So he pretended to think, as Chaz worked on his opus—alternate tenors building: “The sad man thinks (watch him think watch him think watch him think) nothing to do (to do to to do) but go all in or fold! Already lost three thousand toniiiiight (he should fold he should fold he should fold) … But no! His stupid heart—his hotdog cart! He’ll lose it all—never get laid again (he should go all-in, go all-in, go all—iiiiiiiiiiiiin) …!”
“All-in,” said Mason.
The sudden quiet had nothing to do with the calculating of odds, but with Chaz trying to figure out a suitable operatic bridge. Mason was feeling good. He was about to win—big time, as long as Chaz went in. Sure he’d still be down, but his losing streak was over, and he could work from that blessed, fragile point.
“Another tragic mistake! The hotdog hack has done it again, done it again, done it again …”
Chaz was trying to get a read on Mason who stared steadily back at him until finally Chaz ended on a lame, ill-thought note—“He’s blown his load!”—and pushed his chips all-in.
Mason turned his cards, for three eights. Chaz flipped a jack and ace, for nothing. “Flippin’ deal ’em out,” he said.
There wasn’t a straight or a flush to be had. “What happened to all the singing?” said Mason, then turned up a jack.
Chaz pointed his finger at Mason. “One more jack and you’re my bitch (my bitch my bitch my biiiiitch). How lucky, it iiiis, that I alreeeeady-like-you.”
Mason laughed, because the final crescendo was better than he’d expected—and also there was no way they’d hit another jack. The odds were astronomical: like finding God in a bowl of Shanghai noodles.
“Eat it up,” said Mason, and flipped a jack.
Neither of them moved or breathed a word.
Chaz had left with all the money. The Warrior Monk was dead.
Mason couldn’t trick himself into not caring. Just two weeks and he’d lost every dollar of Warren’s five grand. All that blood money. He could have paid off Chaz, worked less on hotdogs, more on his novel. It made him furious. The only way to ever win was having enough to lose.
That’s how Chaz did it. It bugged him how much money Chaz made. And the fact that Chaz didn’t snort the stuff himself made it even lousier. Mason had vowed he’d never become a dealer but he’d broken a lot of other vows—that’s what happened if you went around vowing haphazardly like a carefree, careless monk. So what had he become instead?
A vagrant. A cokehead. A drunk.
A guy who sells hotdogs.
A lousy gambler. A hack.
Yeah, that’s way better.
As he had another drink, as he did another line, as he shuffled the cards, Mason’s anger grew. It had been expanding slowly since his night in that empty room. But now it grew in spades, and as it did its focus shifted from Mason, to his predicament, to the late Warren Shanter. It rose up and set upon the dead man like a dog who’d been kicked in the head.
He screwed you over.
He lied to you. He took advantage of your kindness—your desire to help people. And he turned you into a chump.
A love letter, for Christ’s sake! You are a chump.
And Warren knew it.
He used you. He bought and sold you. The money’s all gone and so is he, and now you’re going to hell.
What else is new?
So what are you going to do about it?
The anger snarled around him. The wind was blowing outside, banging against the windows. Across the street the MHAD billboard turned. A drink, a line, a shuffle. The wind, the snarling, the pieces turning …
Then—click—the image snapped into place.
And suddenly he could see it: his very own billboard.
He put down the cards and walked to the desk. The sun was rising. A car alarm went off. Mason looked out the window. The man with the invisible kite was there, his arm tugging at nothing. Mason sat down and began to type.
Are you at the end of your rope, or plan to be?
Contact www.ghostwriter.com
So life ain’t worth living?
And your writing skills suck?
Try www.thelastword.com
Given up hope?
Don’t give up your legacy.
Go to www.eternalspin.com
Ready to throw in the chips?
Shock and awe them all.
Check out www.prosetodieby.com
So you’re going out in a blaze of glory,
Let ’em know why.
Go to www.weneverknewye.com
The grey skies may never be clear,
But at least your letter should be.
Contact www.GhostMason.com
Hell, what do you have to lose?
Who wants to tell old Aunt Sarah?
Joe’s run off to Fire Lake.
THE THIRD
INTRODUCING:
Sissy, the Doc again,
the Cave and the QT Room
20
“You can call me Sissy.”
“Is that your name?”
She glanced around as if checking for spies in the fluorescence. There was a Harvey’s burger joint in the building next to where Mason lived and he loathed going in, though sometimes he had to—for morning grease salvation. But this one was possibly the worst Harvey’s in existence. Those in the know called it Ho-vee’s. Those in the know were hookers, johns, junkies, dealers, cops and a few purgatorial employees.
“My dad named me Circe. Like from The Odyssey …”
Mason hoped she hadn’t noticed him wince. He couldn’t picture a less Circe-like woman. There wasn’t a tempting thing about her.
“I guess he thought it was funny or something.” She took a small sip from her little peel-back cup of apple juice. “He’s a poet.”
“I don’t much like poetry.”
“Then you’d hate my father. He’s actually kind of famous…. You know what the kids in school used to call me?”
Mason waited, hoping he wouldn’t have to say What? He took a sip of his milkshake and swallowed. “What?”
“Circle,” she said, eyes levelled, as if daring him to laugh. She was the roundest person he’d ever met. “Just call me Sissy, okay?”
“You got it.”
It had been over a week since he’d discovered the website—TheWayOut.Com. The home page read: A forum for those with final thoughts.
There was a “Hall of Infamy” with bios of Spalding Gray, Sylvia Plath, Hunter S. Thompson, a “Do-it-Yourself” section (which Mason had skipped) and then, at the bottom, a “Classifieds” page. It contained the same sort of ads you’d find at the back of an urban weekly. But here even the mo
st banal of announcements carried an ominous tone:
For Sale: mattress, couch and TV (and some other things)—available immediately.
Wanted: carving set, preferably silver with ivory handles.
Cat-sitter needed.
Mason realized his own ad need not be detailed. The site itself would supply the necessary context. And so he kept it simple, and vague:
Professional ghostwriter available, for notes and letters. Rates negotiable.
Then his new email address: [email protected]. All messages sent to this address would be automatically forwarded to his primary account.
By “rates negotiable” he meant “as much as you’ve got”—his theory being that if someone required his services then, logically, they’d have no use for money.
Sky’s the limit, he’d thought, then shivered.
But now, with this round girl sitting across from him, holding nothing but apple juice, the limit seemed a helluva lot lower. Somewhere near the fluorescent lights.
“Is this really the best place to talk about this?” He fished with his straw for the milkshake dregs then pushed the cup away.
“We’re not even talking about anything,” said Sissy. “And yeah, this is the best place. Everyone in here is either loud or passing out, so they don’t listen to anything. And they don’t look at you like you’re disgusting.”
Her girth spilled over one and a half Harvey’s stools. Her hair looked as if she’d coloured it with a mix of oil and watery rust. It fell over her eyes, and the acne on her cheeks and chin looked like it had dripped there from her bangs.
“You sure you don’t want a burger?” asked Mason.
“I don’t eat fast food.”
“Well, I’m going to get one for myself, okay?”
She shrugged and Mason walked to the counter. “High School Confidential” was playing out of fuzzy speakers. It was evening outside, but here in the yellow light, people carrying trays back to tables, glaring and grumbling, it felt like lunchtime in a homeless shelter. He was regretting his decision to come here sober.
Mason paid his money and picked up the tray—a bacon burger, an apple juice and a Diet Coke. He turned and looked at Sissy who was looking down at the metal table in front of her. And suddenly this—on the surface much better than many he’d lived—felt like the most depressing moment of his life.
“I got you another apple juice,” he said, putting the brown tray on the yellow table.
“Oh, thanks.”
He sat down. “What can I do for you, Sissy?”
She looked at the empty juice container in her hand, placed it on the tray. “I dunno.”
“Well, you contacted me.”
“Well, you posted the ad.”
They looked at each other. It might have been his imagination but, for an instant, Mason thought he saw the glimmer of a joke in her eye. He took a bite of his burger, then another. He wasn’t hungry at all. Sissy reached for the apple juice.
“Back in a second,” said Mason. He went into the bathroom, into a stall, dumped some powder onto the toilet tank and did a quick line. Within moments he was back at their table.
“Okay.” Sissy looked up at him as he laid out his terms. “Here’s the deal: I don’t want to know your last name. I don’t want to know where you live. I don’t want to know how you’re going to do it.” He stopped, letting that last one echo. This was how he’d practised it.
“What do you want?” said Sissy.
“I want to know everything else—enough for me to write a good letter. And at least five thousand dollars …”
He’d decided this was the best way to do it. If she made like this was nothing, he’d finish the sentence “as a retainer …” then go ahead and raise his fee.
“What do you mean, at least?”
“The more you can pay, the more time I can spend with you,” he said. It just came out—so sickly intuitive, so base and brilliant. He felt the coke move through him.
“How do I know if you can even write?” said Sissy. “I mean …”
“It’s all I do!” said Mason.
It was like a bark, and they both went quiet. Sissy slowly peeled back the tin foil seal and looked into her apple juice. “Me, I don’t do anything.”
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Portfolio and Invoice
Sissy,
In answer to your (valid) question, Can I write?, here are some samples of my work. I am also attaching an invoice as per our agreement.
–Mason D
It had taken Mason a half-dozen attempts to come up with these two sentences, then the invoice attached:
Invoice #005:
$6,000 payable, in person, to author for services rendered.
Payment will be made by Sissy———, in two installments:
1) half upon receipt of this invoice;
2) remaining half upon acceptance of manuscript.
Both payments will be made in cash.
They’d decided on this amount, awkwardly, after Sissy had declared, “I’ve got some money.”
The attached portfolio included five writing samples. Mason had meant to just glance over what he was going to send to her, but then he’d had some drinks and sat there reading all of it.
There were two short stories he’d had published (one about a teenage security guard who buries his beloved father behind the factory he’s hired to guard, and the other about a drunken American who becomes the mayor of a small Mexican town because they think he’s Santa Claus), a feature magazine article about a deaf bull rider with whom Mason had spent a week on the circuit, the first chapter of his novel in progress (though he still wasn’t happy with it) and the letters he’d written for Warren.
By the time he’d read it all, Mason was so high it felt like the floor was beating beneath his feet, sending dull rhythmic shocks up into his gut. He did lines until the floor, his feet, gut and heart pounded as one. Then he emptied some tobacco out of a cigarette, cut the last of the powder into it, tapped it down, gave a twist with his fingers and smoked it as hard as he could. He clicked Send, drank three ounces of Scotch in two large gulps, then stared through the screen till the sun came up.
21
1. I feel isolated and alone.
2. Music is a gift from God.
He reread the section heading.
Socrates #4
Answer these questions using the following model:
N = Not true at all
S = Somewhat true
E = Extremely true
“I don’t get it.”
The man (Mason had already forgotten his name) looked up from the desk. “What part?”
“What does somewhat true mean?”
“Oh, that. Just answer best as you can.”
1. I feel isolated and alone.
2. Music is a gift from God.
3. I would very much like to belong to several clubs.
“By ‘true’ do you mean applicable?”
“What?”
“Like somewhat applicable, or not applicable at all?”
“Sure. Yeah. Do it that way.”
Mason turned back to the questionnaire.
4. If I were a sculptor I would not sculpt figures in the nude.
5. I sometimes drink more than I should at social functions or sports events.
6. The top of my head feels soft.
7. I have never urinated blood.
“Wow.”
Silence.
“This is a weird section.”
“Uh-huh.”
8. At times I hear so well it bothers me.
9. I believe I dream in colour.
10. I have little or no fear of the future.
This completes Socrates #4.
“Are there any more like this?”
“Excuse me?”
“For, um, Socrates #4?”
The man put down the file he was looking at. “You want more of them?”
“Do you have more?”
“Let me see.” He picked up a spiral-bound book and flipped some pages. Then he started to read: “‘This section is culled from a list of five hundred Socratic statements. They are designed to, among other things, disrupt the subject’s pattern of answering questions by rote. They also supply the trained Socratic analyst with a unique spectrum of personal information.’”
“So there’s five hundred more of them?”
“Four hundred and ninety, apparently.”
“Do you think I could get a copy?”
“What for, exactly?”
Mason imagined five hundred different people blurting out the first thing that came to them. He pictured their thoughts, scattered somehow throughout his novel. “I don’t really know,” he said.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the man. “You’ve still got …,” he looked at the notebook, “nine more sections to do in order to complete your assessment questionnaire. Finish those, and I’ll make a note—right here in your chart—that you’re interested in acquiring the full list of Socratic statements. Okay? That way, when you come in for your assessment with the doctor, she might be able to help you with that.”
“I thought this was my assessment?”
“This is just the preliminary,” said the man, as if Mason was qualifying for the Olympics. “Go ahead and finish them up.”
The rest of the sections were what he’d come to expect—lists of redundant questions regarding alcohol consumption and drug use:
How much per day / per week / per month?
How much alone / with friends / in bars?
From mason jars / in the backs of cars?
In a little how town / with up so floating / many bells down?
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