Outside, he was puzzled. He checked with the neighbors again. There'd been a man she talked to. Someone now remembered that. But everyone was certain that she'd been alone when she'd returned to the house. He walked back, looking. Then he asked if he could use a neighbor's phone. He called other friends. He called the hospital and on an impulse the police. No help, no sign of her, and since there was no evidence of something wrong, he learned that no policemen would be coming out. "Just give her time. She'll be back."
He left the neighbors, returning to the house. But this time when he studied it, the dusk now gray around it, he was conscious of a sound, no, something less than that, something on the other side of hearing, more a presence than a sound, coming from the house. He took a step. The thing subsided. A moment later, it rose again, closer, stronger. He could almost touch it, hear it. He continued toward the house. Music, unseen, unheard, faint and tinkling, merry, far away, yet close. When he reached the door, he recognized the coo-coo-coo, and yes, he did hear laughter, children's laughter, but he burst in, and the house was dark, and there was no one. The laughter stopped, although it hadn't really been there. It was all in his imagination.
He has heard it many times since then, however, and he comes back often just to stand and wait and let it happen, so much so that now he owns the place again. He lives there with his children, who don't remember her. The years have led them forward. Flashes now and then, but little recollection, and he asks them, but they do not hear the laughter.
And the answer? The police at first suspected that he killed her, but they found no body, and he managed to convince them of his innocence. He had seldom argued with her, had always seemed to like her. There was no other woman and no insurance as a motive. Still he often wonders. With this tendency of his to be both "I" and "he," in past and present, he could maybe have a double personality. He could have killed her, and as someone else, he never would have known about it, although he can't find a reason he would have.
All right, she was kidnapped. But there was never a ransom note, and his mind can't sustain the thought of what a kidnapper who left no note would do to her. Imagining his wife alone and trembling, he continues to hope that one day she'll come back to him. He even hopes, although this would normally be painful, that she left him, that the changes they'd been going through weren't half so good as when they first had started, that the man whom someone might have seen had been a secret friend who led her to a better life.
He wishes, and he grieves and, in his constant emptiness, imagines that she actually is with him, all around him, that she never went away but only back.
To where? he asks himself and answers — to her youth, her innocence.
His theory is fantastic, although consoling: that in every person's life there is a place that one can fall through, even by choice slip through, that she lives now with the laughter in a better time and space; and sometimes he can hear a woman in among the children's laughter, playing games perhaps or just enjoying, bringing home to him those words from Eliot again. What might have been. What has been. My words echo with the laughter.
Four stories in ten years. I'm not prolific. Do authors who are prolific have a secret weapon, something that increases their output — a special typewriter, for example? The following story, a mix of darkness and humor, portrays the bleak side of author envy. It's longer than my previous stories and, with a few exceptions, establishes a trend — from this point on, you'll be reading mostly novellas. Many of the cultural references in this piece, Truman Capote and Johnny Carson, for example, are now out of date, but when I attempted to substitute current equivalents, the story didn't work. At first puzzled, I finally realized why Truman and Johnny had to stay. This story belongs in 1983, the year it was published. After all, if it were current, it would have to be about a word processor.
The Typewriter
« ^ »
Eric tingled as if he'd touched a faulty lightswitch or had stepped on a snake. His skin felt cold. He shuddered.
He'd been looking for a kitchen chair. His old one — and the adjective was accurate — in fact, his only kitchen chair had been destroyed the previous night, crushed to splinters by a drunken hefty poetess who'd lost her balance and collapsed. In candor, "poetess" was far too kind a word for her. Disgustingly commercial, she'd insulted Eric's Greenwich Village party guests with verses about cats and rain and harbor lights — "I hear your sights. I see your sounds." — a female Rod McKuen. Dreadful, Eric had concluded, cringing with embarrassment.
His literary parties set a standard, after all; he had his reputation to protect. The Subway Press had just released his latest book of stories, After Birth. The title's punning resonance had seemed pure genius to him. Then too, he wrote his monthly column for the Village Mind, reviewing metafiction and post-modern surreal prose. So when this excuse for a poetess had arrived without an invitation to his party, Eric had almost told her to leave. The editor from Village Mind had brought her, though, and Eric sacrificed his standards for the sake of tact and the continuation of his column. In the strained dry coughing that resulted from her reading, Eric had majestically arisen from his tattered cushion on the floor and salvaged the occasion by reciting his story, "Cat Scat." But when he later gaped at the wreckage of his only kitchen chair, he realized how wrong he'd been to go against his principles.
The junk shop was a block away, near NYU. "Junk" described it perfectly. Students bought their beds and tables from the wizened man who owned the place. But sometimes, lost among the junk, there were bargains, and more crucial, Eric didn't have much choice. In truth, his stories earned him next to nothing. He survived by selling T-shirts outside movie theaters and by taking handouts from his mother.
Leaving the hot humid afternoon, Eric entered the junk shop.
"Something for you?" the wrinkled owner asked.
Sweating, Eric said aloofly, "Maybe. I'm just browsing."
"Suit yourself, friend." The old man sucked a half-inch of cigarette. His yellow fingernails needed clipping. He squinted at a racetrack form.
The room was long and narrow, cluttered with the leftovers of failure. Here, a shattered mirror on a bureau. There, a musty mattress. While sunlight fought to reach the room's back reaches, Eric groped to find his way.
He touched a grimy coffee table with its legs splayed. It sat on a sofa split down the middle. Dirty foam bulged, disintegrating. Pungent odors flared his nostrils.
Kitchen tables. Even one stained kitchen sink. But Eric couldn't find a kitchen chair.
He braved the farthest corners of the maze. Tripping over a lamp cord, he fell hard against a water-stained dresser. As he rubbed his side and felt cobwebs tickling his brow, he faced a dusty pile of Liberty, Colliers, and Saturday Evening Post and saw a low squat bulky object almost hidden in the shadows. That was when he shuddered, as if he'd touched a spider's nest or heard a skeleton's rattle.
The thing was worse than ugly. It revolted him. All those knobs and ridges, curlicues and levers. What purpose could they serve? They were a grotesque demonstration of bad taste, as if its owner had decided that the basic model needed decoration and had welded all this extra metal onto it. A crazed machinist's imitation of kinetic art. Abysmal, Eric thought. The thing must weigh a hundred pounds. Who'd ever want to type on such a monster?
But his mind began associating. Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du Mai. Oscar Wilde. Aubrey Beardsley. Yes, The Yellow Book!
He felt inspired. An ugly typewriter. He grinned despite the prickles on his skin. He savored what his friends would say about it. He'd tell them he'd decided to continue Baudelaire's tradition. He'd be decadent. He'd be outrageous. Evil stories from an evil typewriter. He might even start a trend.
"How much for this monstrosity?" Eric casually asked.
"Eh? What?" The junk man looked up from his racing form.
"This clunker here. This mutilated typewriter."
"Oh, that." The old man's skin was sallow. His hair looked like the cobwebs Eric s
tood among. "You mean that priceless irreplaceable antique."
"No. I mean this contorted piece of garbage."
The old man considered him, then nodded grimly. "Forty bucks."
"Forty? But that's outrageous! Ten!"
"Forty. And it's not outrageous, pal. It's business. That fool thing's been on my hands for over twenty years. I never should've bought it, but it came with lots of good stuff, and the owners wouldn't split the package. Twenty years. Two bucks a year for taking space. I'm being generous. I ought to charge a hundred. Lord, I hate that thing."
"Then you ought to pay me to get it out of here."
"And I should go on welfare. But I don't. Forty. Just today. For you. A steal. Tomorrow it goes up to fifty."
***
Tall and good looking, Eric was also extremely thin. An artist ought to look ascetic, he told himself, although the fact was he didn't have much choice. His emaciation wasn't only for effect. It was also his penance, the result of starvation. Art paid little, he'd discovered. If you told the truth, you weren't rewarded. How could he expect the System to encourage deviant opinions?
His apartment was only a block away, but it seemed a mile. His thin body ached as he struggled to carry his purchase. Knobs jabbed his ribs. Levers poked his armpits. His knees bent. His wrists strained at their sockets. God Almighty, Eric thought, why did I buy this thing? It doesn't weigh a hundred pounds. It weighs a ton.
And ugly! Oh, good Lord, the thing was ugly! In the harsh cruel glare of day, it looked even worse. If that junk man turned his lights on for a change, his customers could see what they were buying. What a fool I've been, Eric thought. I ought to go back and make him refund my money. But behind the old man's counter, there'd been a sign. The old man had jabbed a finger at it: ALL SALES FINAL.
Eric sweated up the bird-dung-covered steps to his apartment building. "Tenement" was more accurate. The cracked front door had a broken lock. Inside, plaster dangled from the ceiling; paint peeled from the walls. The floor bulged; the stairway sagged; the banister listed. A cabbage smell overwhelmed him; onions, and a more pervasive odor that reminded him of urine.
He trudged up the stairs. The old boards creaked and bent. He feared they'd snap from the weight he carried. Three flights. Four. Mount Everest was probably easier. A group of teenagers — rapists, car thieves, muggers, he suspected — snickered at him as they left an apartment. One of the old winos on the stairs widened his bloodshot eyes, as if he thought that what Eric carried was an alcoholic hallucination.
At last he lurched up to the seventh floor but nearly lost his balance, nearly fell back. As he struggled down the hall, his legs wobbled. He groaned, not just from his burden but from what he saw.
A man was pounding angrily on Eric's door: the landlord, "Hardass" Simmons, although the nickname wasn't apt because his rear looked like two massive globs of Jell-O quivering when he walked. He had a beer gut and a whisker-stubbled face. His lips looked like two worms.
As Eric stopped, he nearly lost his grip on the ugly typewriter. He cringed and turned to go back down the stairs.
But Simmons pounded on the door again. Pivoting his beefy hips disgustedly, he saw his quarry in the hall. "So there you are." He aimed a finger, gunlike.
"Mr. Simmons. Nice to see you."
"Crap. Believe me, it's not mutual. I want to see your money."
Eric mouthed the word as if he didn't know what "money" meant.
"The rent," the landlord said. "What you forget to pay me every month. The dough. The cash. The bucks."
"But I already gave it to you."
Simmons glowered. "In the Stone Age. I don't run a charity. You owe me three months rent."
"My mother's awfully sick. I had to give her money for the doctor's bills."
"Don't hand me that. The only time you see your mother is when you go crawling to her for a loan. If I was you, I'd find a way to make a living."
"Mr. Simmons, please, I'll get the money."
"When?"
"Two weeks. I only need two weeks. I've got some Star Trek T-shirts I can sell."
"You'd better, or you'll know what outer space is. It's the street. I'll sacrifice the three months rent you owe me for the pleasure of kicking you out the door."
"I promise. I've got a paycheck coming for the column I write."
Simmons snorted. "Writer. That's a laugh. If you're so hot a writer, how come you're not rich? And what's that ugly thing you're holding? Jesus, I hate to look at it. You must've found it in the garbage."
"No, I bought it." Eric straightened, proud, indignant. At once the thing seemed twice as heavy, making him stoop. "I needed a new typewriter."
"You're dumber than I thought. You mean you bought that piece of junk instead of paying me the rent? I ought to kick you out of here right now. Two weeks. You'd better have the cash, or you'll be typing in the gutter."
Simmons waddled past. He lumbered down the creaky stairs. "A writer. What a joke. And I'm the King of England. Arthur Hailey. He's a writer. Harold Robbins. He's a writer. Judith Krantz and Sidney Sheldon. You, my friend, you're just a bum."
As Eric listened to the booming laughter gradually recede down the stairs, he chose between a clever answer and the need to set his typewriter down. His aching arms were more persuasive. Angry, he unlocked the door. Embarrassed, he stared at his purchase. Well, I can't just leave it in the hall, he thought. He nearly sprained his back to lift the thing. He staggered in and kicked the door shut. He surveyed his living room. The dingy furniture reminded him of the junk shop where he'd bought the stuff. What a mess I'm in, he told himself. He didn't know where he could get the rent. He doubted his mother would lend him more money. Last time, at her penthouse on Fifth Avenue, she'd been angry with him.
"Your impractical romantic image of the struggling starving artist… Eric, how did I go wrong? I spoiled you. That must be it. I gave you everything. You're not a youngster now. You're thirty-five. You've got to be responsible. You've got to find a job."
"And be exploited?" Eric had replied, aghast. "Debased? The capitalistic system is degenerate."
She'd shaken her head and tsk-tsk-tsked in disappointment. "But that system is the source of what I lend you. If your father came back from that boardroom in the sky and saw how you've turned out, he'd drop dead from another heart attack. I've not been fair. My analyst says I'm restricting your development. The fledgling has to learn to fly, he says. I've got to force you from the nest. You'll get no further money."
Eric sighed now as he lugged the typewriter across the living room and set it on the chipped discolored kitchen counter. He'd have set it on the table, but he knew the table would collapse from the weight. Even so, the counter groaned, and Eric held his breath. Only when the counter stopped protesting did he exhale.
He watched water dripping from the rusty kitchen tap. He glanced at the noisy kitchen clock which, although he frequently reset it, was always a half hour fast. Subtracting from where the hands were on the clock, he guessed that the time was half past two. A little early for a drink, but I've got a good excuse, he told himself. A lot of good excuses. Cheap Scotch from the previous night's party. He poured an ounce and swallowed it, gasping from the warmth that reached his complaining empty stomach.
Well, there's nothing here to eat, he told himself and poured another drink. This albatross took all the money I'd saved for food. He felt like kicking it, but since it wasn't on the floor, instead he slammed it with his hand. And nearly broke his fingers. Dancing around the room, clutching his hand, he winced and cursed. To calm himself, he poured more Scotch.
Christ, my column's due tomorrow, and I haven't even started. If I don't meet my deadline, I'll lose the only steady job I've got.
Exasperated, Eric went into the living room where his old, faithful Olympia waited on its altar-like desk opposite the door, the first thing people saw when they came in. This morning, he'd tried to start the column, but distracted by his broken kitchen chair, he hadn't been able t
o find the words. Indeed, distraction from his work was common with him.
Now again he faced the blank page staring up at him. Again his mind blocked, and no words came. He sweated more profusely, straining to think. Another drink would help. He went back to the kitchen for his glass. He lit a cigarette. No words. That's always been my problem. He gulped the Scotch. Art was painful. If he didn't suffer, his work would have no value. Joyce had suffered. Kafka. Mann. The agony of greatness.
In the kitchen, Eric felt the Scotch start to work on him. The light paled. The room appeared to tilt. His cheeks felt numb. He rubbed his awkward fingers through his thick blond neck-long hair.
He peered disgustedly at the thing on the kitchen counter. "You," he said. "I'll bet your keys don't even work." He grabbed a sheet of paper. "There." He turned the roller, and surprisingly it fed the paper smoothly. "Well, at least you're not an absolute disaster." He drank more Scotch, lit another cigarette.
His column didn't interest him. No matter how he tried, he couldn't think of any theories about modern fiction. The only thing on his mind was, what would happen in two weeks when Simmons came to get the rent. "It isn't fair. The System's against me."
That inspired him. Yes. He'd write a story. He'd tell the world exactly what he thought about it. He already knew the title. Just four letters. And he typed them: Scum.
The keys moved easier than he'd expected. Smoothly. Slickly. But as gratified as Eric felt, he was also puzzled — for the keys typed longer than was necessary.
His lips felt thick. His mind felt sluggish as he leaned down to see what kind of imprint the old ribbon had made. He blinked and leaned much closer. He'd typed Scum, but what he read was Fletcher's Cove.
Astonishment made him frown. Had he drunk so much he couldn't control his typing? Were his alcohol-awkward fingers hitting keys at random? No, for if he typed at random, he ought to be reading gibberish, and Fletcher's Cove, although the words weren't what he'd intended, certainly wasn't gibberish.
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