by Kim Cayer
“Hey, you!” he called out. “You’re Carrie D’Away!”
“Huh?” I said. “Carried away?”
“The newspaper lady,” he remarked. “I didn’t know we had some big shot living here.”
“How do you know?” I dumbly asked.
He lifted up the early edition of the Daily Times. “There’s a story ’bout ya in here.”
“Oh, can I have that?” I asked, springing forward.
He clutched the newspaper to his chest. “Ohhh, no!” he said. “I’m gonna cut out your picture and put it in the window. I’m gonna make a big sign sayin’ ya live here.”
“Not for long,” I said and walked out. It wasn’t a very good start to my anticipated exhilaration over being featured in the paper, but now I was overly curious to read what it said.
I bought a newspaper out of the first box I saw then walked into a donut shop across the street. I chose a seat at a table and put the newspaper down. On the front page, there was a blurb above the News’ logo. ‘Carrie D’Away – Voice of the People. See Story Page 51.’
I turned to Page 51 and was greeted by a huge photo of yours truly. I gasped in amazement. That was me? Why, I looked a bit like a young Sigourney Weaver with boobs. I remembered the photographer taking that particular shot. He had run out of film and was reloading when I noticed my shoelace was untied. I had bent down to tie it up when I heard, “Alice.” I glanced up and he snapped a picture. I remember thinking, Boy, I’ll look pretty goofy in that one. My hair fell in my eyes, my mouth is hanging open. But wow! I looked quite sultry! I hoped the story would be equally flattering.
It was like watching the entire series of Tomorrow Will Come again. The reporters were pretty investigative; my whole life was splayed out before me. Why oh why would anyone be interested in that silly suicide saga? Who cares if I was a failed actress? Big fuckin’ deal if I committed myself into a psycho ward? So what so what so what?????
I looked at my photo again and this time I saw a lecherous she-devil. There was only a small mention in the article that I even wrote for the Daily Times. It was too mundane an item for the rest of the story. And oh, how these writers can gloss up a life! Instead of saying, “Alice didn’t have a boyfriend until she turned 21,” they said, “Alice was scorned by men well into her adulthood.” No, folks, Alice does NOT “prefers to live in squalid corners above a nightclub rather than a home befitting her stature.” The story had a subtitle under ‘Voice of the People’. It said ‘The Rise, Fall and Rise again of Alice Kumplunkem.’ It gleefully went into detail about my made-in-the-shade job at Sebrings (so they thought), my departure and subsequent commitment to the psychiatric institution, and my current claim to fame as the Daily Times’ Carrie D’Away.
I read the article 20 times, trying to like it. All it did was depress me. The donut shop was filling up and everyone was reading a newspaper. All it took was one, “Hey, aren’t you…?” to make me run out.
I didn’t leave my room all day. I berated myself over that. What are you ashamed of, Alice? Your past? But it really wasn’t as awful as those writers (of both the Daily Times and Tomorrow Will Come) made it out to be. I’d just get up the nerve to venture out when I’d think…BUT THE READERS DON’T KNOW THAT!!!
* * *
The first thing I did Monday morning was rip my photo out of the strip joint’s window. Nobody had to know this was HOME TO CARRIE D’AWAY! The next thing I did was walk to the bank to cash my check.
I almost made it. I was walking past an alleyway when I heard a guy say, “Spare some change for a coffee?” He looked down and out and I knew I could spare a few cents.
I opened up my purse and fished two nickels out of my change pocket. My check stuck out of my handbag live a waving flag. At the same second that I became aware of the fact, I was jerked into the alley and tossed behind a garbage container. “Give me your purse!” the bum commanded.
I clutched it. “No way!”
He made a motion to kick me. I curled into a fetal position among the spilled garbage and threw my purse at him. He whipped out my wallet, took the check, flung everything else to the ground, threw a bag of garbage on top of me, and ran off.
I laid there a moment until the smell of shrimp shells became too strong. MY GOD my mind kept repeating I’VE BEEN MUGGED! I simply couldn’t believe it. I’VE ACTUALLY BEEN @#1@MUGGED. Then worse news hit me. Good God in Heaven! He got my paycheck! I was trembling. I stood up, wiped gooey yellow stuff off my clothes and, crying all the way, I went home to Carrie D’Away.
I didn’t settle down after a while. I just got madder. It finally dawned on me that I should call Dave Galloway to tell him my check had been stolen. “Dave,” I said on the phone, “you won’t believe this! I just got mugged! The guy took my paycheck!”
“We’ll put a stop-payment on it and have a new one for you in a few days,” Dave calmly said. “Alice, we need a killer letter from you today, to capitalize on the feature we ran on you. So see you around four today, OK?” He hung up.
I got even madder. I’d just been brutally mugged and my boss still wanted me to calmly submit another stupid letter. Is that all he cared about? His stupid paper? I didn’t even have a dollar to buy the stupid paper, so I angrily stalked off to the stupid library to read today’s stupid Editor’s View.
* * *
The editor strongly disagreed with the Museum of Modern Art’s recent donation of three Picasso drawings to a small-time museum in Victoria, British Columbia, CANADA. Something to do with the two countries finally fulfilling a free-trade agreement.
For the first time ever, I simply ripped off a letter and decided it was good ‘nuf. They printed anything anyways. I knew I didn’t have the concentration for a proper letter and besides, I wasn’t one single bit over my recent trauma. My God! That mugger could just as easily have KILLED me.
I went off to the Daily Times building and searched for Dave Galloway. I found him in the typesetting room, checking something over. He saw me and simply waved me out. “Just put the letter on my desk, Alice,” he said. I stood there a moment and he glanced up. “Your check‘s not ready yet, you know.”
I knew that. But geez, I’m your celebrity, man. Don’t go brushing me off like that. I’m not in a good mood today; don’t push me. “I’d like to speak to you, Dave,” I said as civilly as possible. “In your office.”
Dave sighed. “Back in a sec, Phil,” he said. I didn’t like that either. I would appreciate more than a SECOND of his time. We walked into Dave’s office and he asked, “Well, what is it?”
“Here’s my letter,” I said and thrust it at him.
“Good one?” Dave asked and winked. “Now that we ran that story, you’re gonna get a whole lot more readers.”
“Yay,” I sarcastically deadpanned. “Dave, you know, I got MUGGED today.” I realized I really wanted a shoulder to cry on and almost began shedding tears again.
“Happens all the time in this city,” Dave replied. “Your first time?”
I nodded, then said, “And I hope it’s my last!”
“Don’t wish for miracles,” Dave cautioned me. “Anyways, you should have a replacement check in the next few days.” He picked up my letter. “I’ll bring this down to the typesetter.”
“Dave,” I added, “he got my bank card, all my ID, everything! Can you…just until I get my replacement check…lend me 50 bucks?”
Without a word, proving I was still a valued employee, he withdrew his wallet and handed me a 50.
The next day, Tuesday, was a normal day. No muggings, I bought a paper, did my usual letter-grind (why I think the national anthem should be discontinued at schools), dropped it off and spent the night alone.
Wednesday was a bit different. I was very nervous carrying around the 40 bucks I had left from Dave’s 50. If I got mugged again, I’d be destitute. I went to my bank to report the loss of my debit card and to make a deposit as a gesture of good faith.
I gave the bank teller my story and even ca
me up with the account number. “There should be no problem,” the teller said. “Your name?”
“Alice Kumplunkem,” I replied, then tittered. “I guess you might know me as Carrie D’Away.” Might as well use my celebrity status.
The teller gave me an odd look then scurried off to the manager’s office. He walked out of his room, made a transaction on the computer in front of me and handed over $8.13. “What’s this?” I asked, puzzled.
“That’s what remains in your account,” he said.
“Keep it!” I said, pushing the money back at him. “I want to put in 30 dollars more.”
“I’m sorry,” the manager said, pushing the money back at me. “We’re closing your account. We do not want to be known as the bank that associates with Carrie D’Away.” He was being snooty as hell.
“What’d I do to you?” I questioned him.
“What haven’t you done to the United States of America?” he patriotically replied. “Take your dirty money and get out of my bank!” He slammed a ‘Closed’ sign down. All the tellers were staring at me. I left the bank with more money than I’d come in with.
I tried to open another account with a different bank but they refused my business. Then I decided I’d better get to work. I saved my money and walked over to read the library’s newspaper. What was this? The Editor’s View centered on my letter of the previous day. I thought hard…what was it? I took a glance and saw my national anthem letter printed today, so it wasn’t that one. I very rarely re-read my letters anymore before handing them over to Dave. I remembered I had written it when I was in that black rage and it had something to do with paintings. Finally I asked the librarian for yesterday’s Daily Times. I flipped to my section and re-read the letter I’d written. With a sinking feeling, I realized maybe I should have re-read it before I submitted it. Maybe I shouldn’t have even submitted it.
Dear Editor, it read. On behalf of my fellow Canadians, I really feel I must reply to your editorial. You make it sound like such a big deal because the United States is giving Canada three Picasso paintings. But you’re not really GIVING them to Canada, are you? You mention it’s part of an old Free Trade Agreement, so obviously, since it’s a trade, you’re going to get something back. Now, I wonder, what would you think your three Picasso’s are worth? What can you ask Canada for in return? I foretell that you’re going to ask for Newfoundland. And what’s more, you‘ll probably think you got the low end of the deal.
As your feature story on me mentioned, I am a Canadian living in the United States. I didn’t ask to move here; you WANTED me. I’d much rather prefer living in Oak Paw, Saskatchewan (located just above Montana, illiterate readers) than to living in New York City, New York, AMERICA. Your streets are not paved with gold; they’re paved with dog poop, human bile and people who can’t afford to live here but have nowhere else to go. Oak Paw has one bum and he lives as well as anyone else. In New York, the people with any money are too cheap to give it away.
Oak Paw has only one family that’s of a different nationality from everyone else, and they’re native Indian. New York – the States for that matter – is so greedy, they’re letting in loads of people of every nationality. No one’s learning the language, everyone’s getting madder and the whole city is starting to resemble a zoo! The Chinese are taking everything over, blind men! They want to buy your Statue of Liberty! The Muslims are taking over your cab trade! Try getting anywhere for under $25! The white man can’t get a job because all the Mexicans are willing to work for below minimum wage. I’d like to put forth a call to the Immigration Office for an immediate massive crackdown on illegal immigrants.
Editor, have you ever been to Canada? Classy country, let me tell you. People are a whole lot friendlier, you can still breathe fresh air and you can still drink our water. I’d like to find out what the ultimate benefit was with this free-trade thing. What? Canada surrenders itself completely to the US and in return, we get complete nuclear missile protection? But who would want to bomb Canada? We’re a peace-loving nation! But read the Daily Times; the whole goddang USA is at war with each other! Grade Two kids going on a school rampage, a serial killer every six blocks…Though I must congratulate you, NYC. I read that you reached a ten-year record low last week – one day, there were only twelve murders. Bully for you.
I see creepy Americans every day in this city, everywhere I go. There’s no peace from you aggravating people. You’re all yelling at each other. You’re all grouchy. You’re all too caught up in yourselves. You all have a stick up your ass.
In conclusion, I’d like to inform all the readers that as far as this free-trade business is concerned, I don’t want to be traded. I’m quite happy with my team. Sincerely, Carrie D’Away. P.S. I spit on your Picasso paintings.
I slowly put the newspaper down. Did I somehow manage to offend every single citizen of the U. S. of A.? Pretty wicked letter, Alice. Spiteful enough to cause the editor to reply to it. I went back to his view for today.
Well! Fuck him too! He calls me a white supremacist? How dare he? Perhaps I did come off sounding that way, but I’ll have you know I once had a little crush on Chris Rock, so there! And he says I’m biting the hand that feeds me. Am I supposed to believe that my life has turned so wonderful since I arrived in this godforsaken country? Hey, they bit first so I’m biting back. He wonders how they could have hired such a crude, vicious racist such as I.
And that’s how he ended his editorial. Oh oh. Even though I still felt I was in the right, I figured I’d better write a remorseful letter or my job would be in some jeopardy. OK, OK, the letter was a bit much, I agree. I settled down to write an ‘accept my apologies’ letter.
I was having a difficult time writing it until I took a break and decided to scan a bit more of the newspaper. HOLY SHIT MOLY! Even the readers were damn pissed off at me! Every single letter to the editor, barring mine, had to do with their hateful feelings towards Carrie D’Away, otherwise known as Alice Kumplunkem. I instantly returned to my letter in progress and poured out bucketfuls of “I’m sorry”s.
So embarrassed and ashamed was I that I didn’t bother going up to Dave’s office. I dropped it off at the reception desk; a letter simply marked for Dave Galloway, Assistant Editor. No return address or name. Then I scurried back to my grungy room, keeping my head low. I almost didn’t notice the sign in the window of my residence – ‘Carrie D’Away No Longer Lives Here’. Oh, shit…trouble. Please don’t put me out on the street! I knew it’d only be for a couple days, until I could move into my new, cushy place, but I didn’t want people recognizing me.
I walked into the lobby. “What’s with the sign?” I asked. “Don’t I still live here?”
“Oh, yeah,” the day help replied. “We just don’t want any trouble, ya know? Your name is mud right now. But your money’s still good and as long as you pay your rent, you can stay here.”
“Thanks,” I said. It wasn’t the right time to give my notice.
“Shit, we had a war criminal living here five years ago,” the guy went on. “A little old guy who killed…”
“I get the picture,” I interjected.
“They came in the middle of the night for him! Took him out in handcuffs and chains!” he called out as I walked up the stairs. His last words stayed with me all night.
On Thursday I rose early and raced to the library. I impatiently waited fifteen minutes for three people to finish reading the three available copies of the Daily Times. As soon as a burly Italian closed his paper, I took it out of his hands. “I’m reading this now,” I said.
He did a double take when he saw me. Then he spat at my feet. “I spit on you!” he said.
I was stunned. “What the fuck?! That’s…that’s against library rules!” I sputtered.
“Carrie D’Away, everyone!” the Italian presented me to the library crowd. Boos and hisses filled the air. Before they decided to attack me, I fled. To hell with my careful budget. I bought a newspaper from the box outside the stri
p club I lived above.
In the safety of my room, I opened the newspaper to my section. This time I went straight to the Letters to the Editor page. Oh God oh God oh God…where was my column? Oh shit oh shit…I wasn’t printed anywhere!
I then read the editorial. Judging by the editor’s words, everyone was still pretty sore at me. They had received innumerable phone calls and emails, and the general consensus what that I should be tried for treason. I settled down and wrote the teariest, most contrite letter to the editor that he will ever see.
Eight hours later, I sat back with a tired smile. This letter would do it! I’m sure the spirit of Henry Longfellow had inhabited me, as my missive was a poetic ode to forgiveness. To boot, I’d promised my firstborn child would serve time in the US Army if everyone would just forget this little incident.
Feeling stronger, I walked with my head help high into Dave Galloway’s office. “Hi, Dave,” I bravely said. “Here’s my letter to the editor.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” Dave yelled.
I immediately wilted. Holding my letter out tentatively, I repeated. “I’ve brought my letter to the editor.”
“Do you REALIZE what you’ve done to us?!” Dave continued yelling. “Our circulation has reached an all-time low!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, as if I hadn’t said it two hundred times in yesterday’s unprinted letter to the editor.
“You’re sorry? You should have been sorry before you wrote that letter!” Dave said, rather stupidly, I thought. “Well, after the article we put in tomorrow’s paper, our circulation should get back to normal.”
“Good!” I said, showing I was happy for him.
He looked at me as though I’d won top honors at Idiot School. “Good?” he asked. “Good? That article will be informing our readers that you have been fired. As far as we’re concerned, you were fired as of last Friday.”