by Kim Cayer
Dave took out his walled and pulled a 20 from it. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Pay me when you have the money.”
“Oh, I will,” I said gratefully, snatching the 20 out of his hand. “Thank you so much! I’ll see you soon!”
Thinking carefully, I decided to spend this money wisely. I went to a greasy spoon and had their breakfast special. The food was either too rich or too greasy because I felt ill afterwards. I got off the bus near a fast-food outlet and used their washroom facilities. Then, not trusting myself on a bus, I hailed a cab and scooted home.
I rushed up the stairs to the washroom on my floor. I had to poop. My pants were halfway down by the time I flung the washroom door open. Some junkie was in there, passed out on the can with a needle in his arm. For a microsecond I thought of running down to the second floor washroom, but my bowels had already started their movement. I ripped the needle out of the junkie’s arm, shoved him off the toilet seat and pulled my pants down before I soiled my undies. I didn’t say I made it to sitting on the seat, but most went into the bowl and not the junkie.
Quickly, before the junkie fully came around, I wet some paper towels then rushed to my apartment. There, I cleaned up a bit (myself, not the apartment).
Since I had nowhere to move but on my bed, I stretched out and knew I had more work ahead of me. I fell into another long sleep.
* * *
I was at the convenience store again. This time I marched in and paid for a Daily Times. My stomach had settled but I wasn’t taking chances. I bought a can of chicken soup.
Back at my flat, I anxiously opened the newspaper. What?! No letter!? Then I realized I had only delivered it that morning; it would logically and hopefully appear in the next day‘s paper. I was about to turn to the Editor’s View when a name caught my eye. Carrie D’Away…oh yeah! That’s me! It was a heading above a letter. ‘Carrie D’Away Angers Reader’. Oh oh. That’s what I was afraid of! The gist of the letter was that this man had been beaten by loansharks and he was still paying off a $3000 loan that had escalated to $15,000. He thought the Mafia were scum.
But wait! There was another heading! ‘But More Agree With Her…’ There were three excerpts of letters; one said her husband was a Mafioso and was providing handsomely for her and their six children. Another agreed with me that a career in the Mafia reduced the unemployment situation and the third said that for a paltry $150 a week, his store never got robbed.
I wanted to write them a personal thank you note but all had ‘name withheld’ under their letters. I turned to the Editor’s View and saw what he had to say. Today he complained why Coca Cola shouldn’t be allowed to buy another film studio.
I groaned. I didn’t even know they had one film studio to begin with. And I used to be in the movie business? I reread the Editor’s View about fifteen times. I didn’t see what difference it made if Coca Cola bought ten film studios. I worried over my dilemma for some time and decided I’d have to do some research the next day at the library.
Then since I had absolutely nothing to do in my apartment, I decided to read the Daily Times cover to cover. Amazingly, in the Entertainment Section AND the Business section, I read article upon article about Coke’s latest takeover.
God love a duck, but I still didn’t see what the big deal was. I fell asleep wondering about it and woke up not giving a shit about it. I tried writing letters for hours but they all ended up in the waste bin. Finally I tried a different approach. I simply wrote was on my mind. The main point I made was that Coca Cola could buy whatever they pleased; as long as they kept the prices reasonable and the service fair, why should we complain? Weren’t there larger issues in the world needing our attention?
I thought it was a pretty weak letter. I used my few remaining cents to bus it over to the Daily Times building. Dave stood up when I entered the room. “Congratulations again!” he said. “Fine letter!”
“Did I make today’s paper?” I gasped.
“Didn’t you read it?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “I was too busy.” Too busy slaving over this letter. And that reminded me that I had to pick up today’s paper as soon as possible so I could start slaving over the next letter. My teeth demanded I make $1000 before the Daily Times caught on that I’m just a flash in the pan.
“You can pick up the check tomorrow,” Dave informed me. “You wouldn’t happen to have another letter, would you?”
“Yes, right here,” I said as I reluctantly handed it over. It wasn’t a $200-award winner. I stood there a moment, wondering about my next move.”
“Anything else, Carrie?” Dave enquired.
“Dave, 10 more bucks!” I begged. “I’ll pay it all back to you real soon. I can give it to you in a couple days even – 30 bucks – 20 from yesterday and if you can spare 10 today…,” Dave stopped me from blathering any longer. He handed me a 10.
“Sure, when you can afford it is alright,” Dave assured me. “I’ll see you tomorrow anyways.”
I picked up the Times on my way home. After cooking up some wieners, I turned to ‘my’ section – Page 5 and 6 of the Daily Times. I jumped to the first letter and there I was, under a minor heading, ‘Fast Food Fine for Carrie D’Away’. Again, excerpts under my letter from other writers agreeing with me over past letters.
But the Editor’s View today was a real wingdinger. He was talking about the American ambassador to Bulgaria and the amount of his expense bills. He listed a few and they WERE horrendous. This time I was on the editor’s side of the fence.
But NO, Alice! If your view doesn’t differ from his, you don’t get a pearly white paycheck the next day. I labored over a letter but couldn’t find an angle. I was flipping through the newspaper when I saw a tiny item about a massacre in Bulgaria. From the article’s 50 words, I deduced that Bulgaria was a third-world country.
I fell asleep and dreamt of famine and barrel-bellied children. When I awoke, my hand immediately went for pen and paper. I knew what I would write and jotted down the main idea. The actual writing of the letter took most of the day though. I ate the rest of my wieners, cleaned up and delivered my letter to Dave by five.
“And here’s your check for yesterday’s letter,” Dave said. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the check for today’s letter.”
“Huh?” I remarked. I was too tired to play these word games. Save them for the puzzle page.
“Your letter was printed today…didn’t you know?” Dave asked.
“Oh, yes,” I said. I didn’t know. I kept forgetting to buy the paper. “Dave…you’re not gonna believe this…”
“What?” Dave asked.
“Five bucks?”
I now owed Dave $35.
* * *
I was plain not cut out to be a writer. It has to be the most unglamorous profession, and the most difficult. I sweated over each and every word. Almost every waking minute was spent laboring over a letter. I laughed over the time I thought I’d write a dozen letters a day. Once I got enough saved for my dentist bill, I was going to take one day off from writing.
I’d just picked up a check from Dave. This was for my letter they’d printed about the ambassador to Bulgaria. I’d said that if the government were going to be sending people off to third-world countries, then they SHOULD pay through the nose for it. And besides, the government rips us off all the time; why can’t someone rip them off for once?
“You’re early today, Carrie,” Dave said.
“Yeah, I’ve got some business to take care of,” I replied. My dentist awaited me in less than an hour. I had only four checks accumulated – $800. I left the office and walked to my new bank. I had never prayed so hard for good luck.
God must have mistaken me for someone else because he smiled on me. “Can I withdraw money from my account?” I tentatively asked a teller as I slipped her my debit card.
She ran my number through the computer. “Sure,” she replied. “How much?”
“One thousand smackers!” I whoop
ed, then said, “Make that ten-fifty.” May as well pay Dave the $35 I owed him and eat while I’m at it. She gave me my money. “Now,” I said dramatically, “I’d like to DEPOSIT money.” It felt like such a grand, decadent thing to do. I wish the teller saw it my way.
The next few hours weren’t so pleasant. I’m sure the dentist carried fond memories of me because he only gave me enough laughing gas to last half an hour. I spent the next hour not laughing. He finally snapped off his drill and sat back. “Twelve cavities,” he remarked. “I must say, you got a good deal for 1000 dollars.” I figured that was my cut so I pulled the money out of my pocket. “Thank you,” he said, taking it.
“Do I have even more silver in my mouth now? I asked. I was afraid of looking like some horror-film antagonist.
“No, we use white fillings these days. I fixed a lot of the old ones. Your teeth look normal,” Dr. Spalding said. “Now, they could look even better for an extra 400.”
“How?” I asked.
“I could put in a lovely fake tooth to replace the one you’re missing,” he said, as if he wasn’t the cause of it missing in the first place.
“I’ll make an appointment,” I replied and left his torture chamber. I had a letter to write.
* * *
“Did you read the paper today?” Dave asked. He always asked.
“No,” I replied, I always replied.
“Hhmmm….,” he said. That was strange. Usually he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow for today’s letter check,” or something similar to that.
I didn’t pursue it. I left and immediately bought the paper. I opened it up to my page and glanced down, as usual, to the lead letter in the Letters to the Editor section. What? Who was this Mrs. Faye Darleenah? I scanned all the letters. None from Carrie D’Away. I wasn’t printed! They found a letter of mine unacceptable! What letter was that…? That would have been my stand on allowing an underground parking lot under the Statue of Liberty. Yeah, that one was pretty terrible; my worst effort yet.
So I dashed to the Editor’s View. My reply to that would have to be dynamite! I wanted those 200-dollar checks! My teeth were fixed, my hair was cut, but little money had been spent apart from that. I was saving to move out of that rathole. Someone had died in the room across the hall and they hadn’t found the body for five days. I knew something reeked but it wasn’t all that different from the usual bums’ collective smell. Anyhow, I’d decided I was a step above the other residents and wished to relocate.
The next day, feeling embarrassed that I wouldn’t be picking up a check, I pretended I was in a rush. I raced up to the receptionist and put the letter on her desk. “Can you give this to Dave Galloway?” I breathily asked. “It’s from Carrie D’Away.”
“Certainly, ‘Carrie’,” she said, then giggled. I gave her an affronted look; I felt bad enough not being printed and she didn’t have to make a joke of it.
I kept up this routine for three days. I was working myself to death, in a panic the whole time. They still weren’t printing my letters! Every day, I’d pick up the newspaper and flip to Page 5. I wouldn’t read anything but the names under the letters to the editor. None from Carrie D’Away. Then I’d frightfully look at the Editor’s View and see what I’d have to oppose today. Were they no longer in need of my services? Did I have to work myself into a casket before I would be told?
I became angry at them and decided to consult with Dave about the matter. I also wanted to know why the editor was making it so difficult for me. How can one disagree with the merits of recycling? I brought a poorly written letter with me to Dave’s office.
“Alice!” he cried out for all to hear. “Where’ve you been? Your checks have been piling up.”
“My checks? What checks?” I asked. “You haven’t been printing me.”
“Of course we have; what are you talking about?” Dave said. “You’ve got your own column now!”
I DID? I played dumb and said, “Just joking! Look, I’ve got to get going. Can I have my checks?”
He handed over a small pile of checks. My eyes gleamed. I took them with as little greed as I could muster and left his office. In the elevator, I tucked them into my brassiere. Not that I needed the extra padding but I wasn’t about to go walking around New York with this much money on me. It was different from the old days, when I was making thousands a week and could afford to lose a few G’s in a robbery. But this money had a purpose; to get me out of the dump I was living in.
I picked up a newspaper then decided to treat myself to supper at Ed’s Eating Establishment. I was waiting for my eggs benedict when I opened up the Daily Times to my usual section. I carefully scanned Page 5. There was a cartoon and sixteen letters to the editor, none authored by me. I slowly turned to the Editor’s View. Hhhmm, I would have to write why Roman Catholics should allow priests to marry. That would be fairly easy, I thought. I was wondering where my letter was. My column, I should boastfully say.
The waitress delivered my eggs Benedict and simply set them on the top of my newspaper. The bottom of Page 6 stuck out from under the plate. A new heading caught my eye – ‘Carrie D’Away’, with a byline – ‘by Alice Kumplunkem’.
I lost my appetite. Why, those louses! They betrayed me! I was supposed to remain anonymous! I didn’t want the readers to actually think ALICE KUMPLUNKEM was a bigoted, self-righteous, crass, warmongering bitch. Carrie D’Away, sure, but not me!
I went home but couldn’t write. All I could think about was the Daily Times’ act of stupidity. The next day I went to the local library. Looking at a back issue of the Daily Times, I saw when I first got my column. There was a little accompanying story saying that Carrie D’Away had become quite popular with the readers and continuously offered a well-thought-out differing view than the editor. Due to popular demand, Carrie D’Away was being given a column all to herself.
I felt a bit better knowing I was so popular. Looking at today’s paper, I saw I was again in print. At least money was coming in too. I went over to Dave’s office to pick up a check.
“Here’s your money,” Dave said. “Got a letter?”
“No, not today,” I said. “Dave, I thought we weren’t going to use my real name. What happened?”
“Alice, a couple readers clued in. They wrote and questioned the authenticity of the writer,” Dave explained. “We thought the time was right to use your real name.”
“You should have asked me first, you know,” I said. “I don’t like the idea.”
“It’s for the best, I think,” Dave said. “Where’s your letter?”
“I didn’t write one,” I repeated.
Dave looked stunned. “Excuse me a minute,” he said and ran out. He was back in five. “Alice, according to our figures, we’ve gained half a million new readers since you’ve started writing for us. The Daily Times would like to hire you on a weekly basis; $1000 a week guaranteed, and you have to write a minimum of five letters a week. What do you think?”
I was going to ask for dental coverage too, but my teeth were all brand spanking new. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll have a letter for you tomorrow.”
I raise their readership by half a mill and they pay me the same salary. And since I didn’t write today, I had five in a row to write. I went back to my firetrap of a room, sprawled out on my dirty sheets, and wondered how I could disagree with the city’s proposed spring cleanup of the streets.
* * *
I found a new place to live. It was gorgeous; a one-bedroom in a corner brownstone for only $1900 a month. The only problem was that I wouldn’t be moving in for another week. Moving day coincided with the last day of my working visa. I hadn’t worried about that; the Daily Times was a pretty important newspaper and I’m sure they had good connections. They would get me another extension on my visa. Sebrings did it; the Daily Times could too.
I was sort of worrying about my social life. It was nonexistent. Why couldn’t I just write a letter in a normal eight-hour workday span? But no, each letter s
eemed to take almost fifteen hours. The job still wasn’t getting easier, although I didn’t fret anymore if I delivered a crappy letter – they seemed to print anything I wrote. Well, the rent and damage deposit almost cleaned me out financially, but I was on my way to Dave’s office for my weekly paycheck.
“Alice,” Dave said, “can you stick around for a minute?”
“Sure,” I replied. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no!” Dave emphatically replied. “We’re all quite happy around here these days. I just wanted to call in a photographer.”
Something strange zeroed in around my heart. “Why?” I asked.
“Well, it was going to be a surprise,” Dave said, “but we decided to do a little feature story on you in the Lifestyle Section. We’d like a couple photos of you.” I didn’t know if I liked the idea and stared at him in horror. “Oh, you don’t have to thank us,” Dave said. “You deserve this.”
“Whaddaya want to write about me for?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Alice!” Dave reprimanded me jokingly. “You’re a celebrity!”
“I am?”
“Didn’t you know?” Dave looked shocked.
“Uh…I guess I’ve been too busy to notice,” I replied. I felt rather honored. I remembered I had already been a celebrity once, when everyone thought I murdered the original Beluga, but this was certainly a different occasion. “Do I look alright for the photographer?” I coyly asked.
The photography session was short and so sweet that I almost left without my paycheck. But I did miss the bank. No problem; I had about $30 to last until Monday. My usual weekend fund.
The next day was Saturday, my ‘day off’. The Daily Times didn’t publish a Saturday paper so I didn’t feel the nagging urge to buy one. I slept in, managed to get ten minutes of hot water in the communal shower, polished my long nails, ate at a trendy eatery, smiled at three young men (got called a slut by one and it didn’t even bother me) and waited for the Sunday Daily Times.
I was up with the morning light. I quickly donned my coat and went quietly down the gritty steps. Used condoms, but no bums. I walked past the night manager, who never said boo to me.